







COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 







A DOUBLE KNOT 

AND OTHER STORIES 


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A DOUBLE KNOT 

AND OTHER STORIES 



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MARY T. WAGGAMAN 

MARY F. NIXON-ROULET 

ANNA T. SADLIER 

MAURICE F. EGAN 

MAGDALEN ROCK 

GRACE KEON 

MARY E. MANNIX 

JEROME HARTE 

MARY G. BONESTEEL 

JULIA C. WALSH 

EUGENIE UHLRICH 

MARY BOYLE O’REILLY 

S. M. O’MALLEY 

KATHARINE JENKINS 


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NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE 
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Copyright, 1905, by BENZIGER BROTHERS. 


CONTENTS 


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i 


BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


PAGE 

A Double Knot . 7 

A Forlorn Hope .13 

At St. Malachi’s 21 

A Brier Rose 29 

The Black Sheep’s Christmas 37 

BY ANNA T. SADLIER. 

A Misdirected Letter ........ 45 

The Red Sorceress . 59 

The Strange Story of Walter Peartree 65 

The Silver Ax 75 


BY MAGDALEN ROCK. 

The Disappearance of Barbara Marchmont .... 85 


A Pearl Necklace . 93 

Susy Darragh’s Story 99 

Biddy Gilligan’s Fairy 105 

BY MARY E. MANNIX. 

* 

Mrs. Thornton’s Plans 113 

Mary’s Trial 121 

The Last Tryst 127 


5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


BY MARY G. BONESTEEL. page 

A Strange Wedding ......... 133 

Mrs. Major’s Stratagem 139 

BY EUGENIE UHLRICH. 

A Lucky Loss 147 

An Irish Bismark 153 

BY MAURICE FRAN(SIS EGAN. 

The Little Postulant 161 

The Test of the Rebel 167 

BY MARY F. NIXON-ROULET. 

The Old Green Chest 171 

BY GRACE KEON. 

“The Very Little One” 175 

BY JEROME HARTE. 

The Redemption of Bill 185 

BY JULIA C. WALSH. 

Through the Transom ........ 191 

BY MARY BOYLE O’REILLY. 

Grandmamma 197 

BY SALLY MARGARET O’MALLEY. 

A Record Breaker 201 

BY KATHARINE JENKINS. 


Chilomacon 


207 


A DOUBLE KNOT. 


BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 

"I am going, going by the next train. There’s no use in 
trying to keep me, May.” 

Pretty Kitty Trevor, with flushed cheeks and flying hair, was 
down on her knees before a huge trunk, into which she was toss- 
ing feminine frippery of the latest date with a reckless disregard 
of consequences. 

“ Going where ? 99 gasped Miss Trevor’s hostess, sinking down 
on the couch that was a chaos of lace-trimmed lingerie. 

“ To dad ! To dad ! Oh, I’ve had a letter from Aunt Allie 
with such news, such awful, awful news,” and Kitty buried her 
face in the pink silk kimono she was rolling up into a wad and 
sobbed outright. 

" Oh, Kitty ! is he so very ill, darling ? ” 

“ Worse than ill — oh, a thousand times worse. Worse than 
dead, almost! He — he — he is going to be married. May, to be 
married ! ” 

“ Married ! ” echoed Kitty’s convent chum, to whom the 
stately Colonel Trevor had seemed a citadel beyond feminine 
attack. “ Oh, it can’t be true ! There’s some mistake.” 

“ It came straight, it came straight,” continued Kitty, 
brokenly. "Aunt Allie wrote me all about it. It’s dad’s old 
sweetheart, Elinor Vane — she is a widow, now, and they met 
again up at Oakcrest. Oh, why did I ever let him go up to the 
mountains for his hay fever alone ? And dad is a catch for any 
widow, you know.” 

“ He is indeed,” said Miss May, emphatically. “ Kitty, it will 
be dreadful for you, I am afraid.” 


A DOUBLE KNOT. 


R 


“Dreadful doesn’t express it. It’s — it’s simply maddening, 
May ! Think of a stepmother, a horrid, meddlesome step- 
mother at my age ! It would not have been so bad half a dozen 
years ago, but now, now, when I am just out, and everything 
was so lovely and I could do exactly as I pleased — Throw me 
down that mull dress out of the closet, May, and pitch in that lace 
hat. I can’t draw an easy breath until I get to dad and have it 
out with him.” 

“ Oh, Kitty, take care,” cried May, pleadingly. “ Let me 
pack up for you — you are spoiling all your beautiful things.” 

“ Oh, I don’t care, I don’t care ! Jump on the trunk while I 
lock it. A stepmother ruling the house and servants, leading dear 
old dad by the nose, guiding me — that’s what Aunt Allie said, 
and I feel like choking her for it — guiding me! And dad in 
love like a schoolboy, when he’s fifty if he’s a day. It’s so per- 
fectly and entirely ridiculous, May. 

“I can’t believe it, I can’t,” continued Kitty hysterically, 
“though I know it’s every word true. But I’ll break it up, I’ll 
break it up, before it gets to breach of promise. May. It’s dread- 
ful to leave you when we were having such lovely times together, 
but I’ve simply got to take the next train.” 

And being a young person of decision, Miss Kitty and her 
trunk were down to meet the Northern Accommodation within 
an hour. 

The graceful little figure, garbed stylishly in brown, caught 
v) the critical eye of a young gentleman in the observation car. 

“By George! I believe I know that young lady just getting 
on the train,” he said eagerly. 

“ Take it easy and finish your cigar, Jack. She is good for 
two hundred miles at least, and I get off at the next station,” 
said the friend beside him. “I wish you would stop over and 
look at my horses. Finest stock this side of the mountains, 
every one says. J ust give me a day.” 

“ I can’t, I simply can’t, Bob, old fellow. I’ve got to get to 
mother as fast as steam will take me. I had a letter this morn- 
ing that fairly knocked me out of time.” 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


9 


“ No bad news, I hope ? ” 

“Bad? Worse than bad. Mad, absolutely mad. You know 
what mother is, Rob — the sweetest, loveliest, wisest woman in the 
world, but, ’pon my life, I believe her head is turned at last. She 
has had suitors by the score since her widowhood and has been 
deaf to them all, but it seems some old codger, to whom she alludes 
as a dear old friend, has got on her soft side.” 

“ A stepfather imminent, eh ? Pretty rocky lookout for you, 
old man, unless you are solid in your own right.” 

“ Oh, Pm solid enough. I don’t care for the money,” answered 
J ack, moodily. “ But rocky is no name for the matter. It’s 
simply inexpressible. To have some meddlesome old fool lord- 
ing it in my place — bossing house and servants and stables and 
kennels, to say nothing of mother herself, who is the gentle, 
angelic sort, to be tramped over roughshod in the name of duty. 
New ties, heaven-sent vocation she hints at in her letter to-day. 
I can hear the canting old hypocrite, who has probably investi- 
gated her bank account, pouring his drivel into her ear. But he 
miscounted badly when he left me out of his calculation. I’ll 
settle him, whoever he is,” and the speaker’s brown eyes flashed 
belligerently. “ I’ll break up his little game. When I got that 
letter I caught up my grip and started without waiting for break- 
fast. I’ll make things unpleasantly warm for any old fossil who 
proposes to domicile himself at Homeside for the rest of his life, 
or my name isn’t Jack Sanders.” 

“ Well, I wish you luck one way or another, old chap,” said 
his friend, rising as the train slowed up for his station. “ Sorry 
you can’t get off and see my stock. Stop on your way back if 
you can, and don’t be too hard on the old folks, Jack. We’ll be 
there some of these days ourselves.” And with a hearty hand- 
shake the young man sprang from the car, while Mr. Sanders 
threw away his half-smoked Havana and betook himself through 
the vestibuled train in a search for the little brown-robed figure 
he had had in his mind’s eye for the last half hour. 

He had not far to seek. With a distinct flutter in his heart 
he recognized the pretty, piquant face that had lingered strangely 


10 


A DOUBLE KNOT. 


in his memory for the last six months, bent over a railroad maga- 
zine in the parlor car. 

“ Miss Trevor/ 5 he said, pausing beside her. 

“ Mr. Sanders ! 55 Kitty lifted a bright, startled face. “ Where 
did you drop from? Oh, I am so glad to meet somebody I know. 55 

And the delighted dimple that played around the speaker’s 
rosy mouth condoned the generalization. 

“ Somebody ” dropped into the seat opposite without further 
hesitation. 

“ This is luck I don’t deserve,” he said. “ What are you doing 
up in this wilderness ? ” 

“ I’ve been visiting — visiting May Morris. You remember 
May? She was one of the crowd from St. Clare’s at that lovely 
house party at the Dunstan’s last Christmas.” 

“ I am afraid I don’t recall her,” answered the gentleman. 

“ There were several pretty convent girls I remember, but one 
only has stood out in such vivid brightness as to obliterate all the 
rest. A certain little golden-haired lady, who wore holly berries 
and white, and bewitched every one within her reach.” 

“Ah, you would tell May another story,” laughed Kitty, 
though a soft flush deepened on her cheek. “ But it was a lovely 
week, wasn’t it ? And you were very nice to me, considering what 
a little stupid I must have seemed. You see, I had never been 
out then, and everything was so bewildering and delightful. I 
have had lots of good times since, but it’s never been quite the 
same.” 

“ Never,” echoed Mr. Sanders, with emphasis. “ Nothing 
in my experience has ever been quite the same.” 

And with this auspicious beginning, the conversation ran on 
merrily with the flash and sparkle that often tell of depths stirred 
into new gladness and life below; for the tall, handsome young 
collegian who had made that first holiday out such a happy one 
had lingered in Kitty’s memory, to the detriment of many others 
who had since sought her smiles. 

As the hours sped on he kept her side while they were borne 
higher and higher up the mountain into an enchanted land bright * 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


11 


with some glamour unknown before. She was going to her 
father, she explained, who was at Oakcrest for his hay fever. Not 
for worlds would she have hinted at dear old dad’s folly and 
called forth the younger man’s jest and smile. 

And Mr. Sanders, by unprecedented good fortune, was bound 
for the same place, where his mother had her summer cottage — 
the gentle mother, whose passing madness he would conceal from 
this merry, laughing girl at any cost. So thrusting all haunting 
shadows from them, they enjoyed the fleeting hours. 

Lunch had been forgotten in their sudden departure, and 
there was no buffet car on the train, but J ack made a swift sortie 
at a little wayside station, and came back laden with rich plunder 
of grapes and peaches and mountain plums, on which they feasted 
royally while the train swept higher and higher into cloudland, 
and bore them, quaffing the wondrous elixir of youth and joy, 
through the pearly gates of the magical dawn, the beautiful dawn 
that heralds love’s perfect day. 

The sunset was gilding the mountain top when they reached 
Oakcrest. Two great coaches were waiting to convey passen- 
gers to the hotels, but a coach was a prosaic apotheosis to this 
beautiful day, when a forest path, shaded by arching oaks, stretched 
up alluringly to wonderful heights of rose and amethyst and gold. 

“ Oh, let us walk,” said Kitty. 

“ By all means,” was the unhesitating reply, and trunks and 
checks were confided to the baggage-master, while the young 
travelers took their way leisurely up the radiant path, glorious 
with rainbow light. 

“ It has been the very jolliest day of my life,” said Jack. “ I 
am sorry it is over.” 

“ So am I,” answered his companion, with a sudden remem- 
brance of dad and the approaching settlement. “I’d like to 
travel on forever.” 

“ Suppose we do ? ” said J ack, eagerly. 

“What! Take the cars again?” she asked, with a little 
laugh. 

“No, not the cars; but, but — ” they were alone in the rain- 


12 


A DOUBLE KNOT. 


bow radiance, and his words came quick, with the impetuosity of 
youth. " On another path, Kitty; the path of life, of love. You 
won my heart last Christmas. You have held it ever since ; it is 
yours now, now and forever.” 

" J ack ! Mr. Sanders ! Oh, please don’t, not now, not here — ” 
Kitty, in blushing, in beautiful confusion, had only time to snatch 
away the hand he had caught in his ardent, pleading grasp, 
when another couple turned the bend of the road, the radiance 
of the sunset on their handsome faces and their silver hair. 

" Dad ! ” cried Kitty, with a glance at the stately gentleman. 

" Mother ! ” was Mr. Sanders’ breathless word, as the sweet- 
faced woman caught his eye. 

" My little girl,” exclaimed Colonel Trevor, as Kitty flung 
herself, half sobbing, on his breast. 

"Jack, darling,” murmured his mother in loving surprise. 

" This is my son, Colonel Trevor — whom I have been so anx- 
ious for you to meet.” 

" And my dear little daughter, Elinor,” said: the colonel, his 
handsome face radiant. " Kitty, this is Mrs. Sanders, my old 
friend Elinor, who — shall I confess, dear — ?” 

"Who has promised to be your mother as well as Jack’s,” 
said the lady, twining a loving arm around Kitty’s waist. "I 
have always longed for just such a daughter, Arthur.” 

" And I for just such a sturdy son as this,” said the colonel, 
clapping Jack on the shoulder. 

" With all my heart, sir,” answered Jack, as his eyes fell on 
Kitty clasped in his mother’s arms, and he shook the " old cod- 
ger’s” hand cordially. "I came up here, I must acknowledge, 
to break you up if I could, sir — ” 

" Oh, so did I, dad, so did I,” confessed Kitty, between sobs 
and smiles, "but since it’s Jack’s mother — •” 

" And since it’s Kitty’s father,” said J ack, eagerly. 

* Ah, I see, you young rogues, I see ! ” said the colonel, laugh- 
ing, " you are going to make it a double knot.” 


A “FORLORN HOPE.” 


BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 

“ There be the place, miss.” Si Dunn, wh* ran the one 
wagonette that comprised the “ livery ” of Duncansville, slackened 
rein as he reached the turn in the mountain-road and pointed to 
an old stone house, rising grim and gray beneath overshadowing 
oaks, while range after range of forest-crowned heights stretched 
above and around it. “ There be Cameron Place, as you asked 
for, miss — but ez for getting board thar, I don’t think you’ve 
any chance at all.” 

“ It will do no harm to try,” said the little lady, who was Si’s 
only passenger this June morning. 

She was a dainty little creature, with her wind-blown hair 
and dancing eyes. Gowned with exquisite simplicity, there was 
an air about her from her pretty straw hat to the tip of her little 
French boot, that made her seem a strange and delicate blossom 
for these rugged wilds. 

“ No harm, maybe,” said honest Si, doubtfully. “ Only rough 
talk ain’t pleasant to hear, and though old Squire Cameron never 
was soft-tongued, he’s got harder and rougher since his trouble 
last year with young Don — ” 

“ Young Don ? ” queried the little lady softly. 

“His son,” explained Si, giving his bony mare a loose rein 
for the climb. “ They hadn’t but one, and was monstrous sot on 
him. And no wonder — he was suthin’ to brag on — six foot four in 
his stocking-feet, tall and strong and straight as a mountain pine. 
The old folks gave him everything first-class, college eddication, 
tower in Europe — everything he could ask. Didn’t spoil him 

13 


14 


A “FORLORN HOPE. 


none, neither — all the folks on the mountain-side agreed to that. 
He was that pleasant and friendly and nice that everybody tuk 
to him. He could have gone anywhar this county vote could 
send him — if ’twas to the White House itself, when the bust-up 
came and spiled all. Now he has quit these parts forever.” 

“ Forever ? ” echoed the girl in a low voice. 

“Lord, yes. Don Cameron ain’t the sort to knuckle down. 
You see, he met some girl off yonder and lost his heart to her. 
That warn’t much hurt, if he hadn’t lost his head, too — clean 
forgot all the bad blood that has been biling in the Camerons for 
hundreds of years, and turned Eomanist with his sweetheart.” 

“ Eomanist ! Oh, you mean Catholic, I suppose/’ said the 
little lady. 

“ It’s all one, I guess,” continued Si, flecking a bluebottle 
from the mare’s ear. “ Anyhow, it split things to flinders up here. 
They say the old man almost went off in an appleplexy — said 
the sort of rough things a young man can’t forgive or forget. 
Told Don to go and never come back, and Don said he never would 
until his father called him. Which ain’t ever going to be if this 
mountain-side knows old Angus Cameron. He is grit straight 
through if it kills him and everybody else. I heern that he won’t 
even have Don’s name spoken before him. And he has shut 
himself up with the old woman in that big house nussing his 
grief and bitterness and pride and spite.” 

“ Oh, stop, please — here is the gate. What a lovely, lovely 
place! Oh! I must go in and see if they will take me. Wait 
here.” And Si’s passenger leaped lightly to the ground. “ I will 
be back in half an hour — unless the old Squire eats me entirely.” 

“ It is a forlorn hope, I know,” continued Miss Elsie Vane, as 
she opened the garden gate boldly, “ but I am a soldier’s daughter 
with the fighting blood of three generations in my veins. And I 
have managed just as big men before,” she added to herself with 
a little tremulous laugh as she advanced to the porch, where Squire 
Angus Cameron, grim and gaunt and gloomy as the granite walls 
of his home, sat smoking his morning pipe. 

It took all the pluck of a soldier’s daughter to charge such a 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


15 


sentinel, but strong men had gone down under the battery of Miss 
Elsie’s bright eyes so often that she had the courage of the con- 
queror. 

a Boarders ! ” echoed the Squire in brusque reply to her re- 
quest. “ Take boarders here? No, we don’t. Never did and 
never will. ’ Don’t want either their money or their company.” 
And the speaker’s tone and look were enough to rout the most 
reckless invader. 

But Miss Elsie held her ground according to the most approved 
feminine tactics, charmingly unconscious of the Squire’s beetling 
frown and uncivil speech. 

“ Oh, I am so sorry,” she said plaintively. “ It is such a 
lovely, lovely place. I never saw such beautiful oaks. And your 
view ! ” Here words quite failed Miss Elsie. “ May I sit down 
just one minute and look at those mountains? ” 

And she sank in a pretty girlish way on the stone step at the 
Squire’s feet. 

The shaggy brows relaxed somewhat. The pretty invader had 
touched a weak point. 

“ Ay, the view is fine. I’ve heard painter folks say they never 
saw aught like it. And though I’ve been looking at it summer 
and winter this forty year, I never found it twice the same. It’s 
mist and cloud, storm and rainbow, changing ever.” 

“ Wonderful,” said the girl softly. “ I have never been in the 
heart of the mountains before. I can understand how their chil- 
dren love them and long for them. I have not been very well,” 
she continued, turning the bright battery of her eyes upon the old 
man’s face. “ The doctor ordered quiet and mountain air. But it 
seems a difficult combination to find. All the hotels are filled 
with gay, noisy crowds, dancing and frolicking day and night. 
I thought I would search these lovely heights and see if some kind, 
good people would take me in.” 

Again the bright, bewitching eyes flashed upon the Squire, 
and again the lines gave way as a tender memory twitched at his 
knotted heartstrings. Twenty years ago he had laid a little maid 
to rest under the lindens — and — and — the old wound hurt yet. 


16 


A “FORLORN HOPE. 1 


Something in the bright, uplifted glance recalled the little lass 
of long ago. 

“ I dunno,” he said, reluctantly. “ There ain’t a place round 
here fitting for folks that want quiet and rest. And if you’re not 
well — Mahala,” as a thin, sad-faced old woman stepped to the 
door behind him, “ here’s a young woman that the doctor has 
ordered to the mountains. She has come looking here for board.” 

“ Oh, not ‘ board ’ ! ” The pretty appeal of the eyes went 
straight now to the old mother’s heart. “ Of course, I can get 
board anywhere. But I am looking for a home for a few weeks — 
a sweet, quiet, peaceful home, where I can rest and grow strong.” 

“ You’d not be wanting jigging and junketing like they have 
at the Mountain House ? ” asked the old Squire, suspiciously. 

“ Not a jig or junket,” answered Miss Elsie, shaking her head. 

“Nor a crowd of young fools blathering around night and 
morning ? ” 

“No young fools shall come within gunshot of me,” laughed 
the girl gaily. 

“ Ay, but there will be sweethearting I know,” and the Squire’s 
brows met again in a doubtful frown. 

“No sweethearting either, on my word and honor. I will be 
no more trouble than a white kitten if you will take me in.” And 
the winsome glance that went with the words settled matters. 

“There’s the dimity chamber, Mahala. No one is likely to 
be asking for it since— since — ” The rough voice suddenly 
paused. 

“Ay, ay, so ye be willing, man, I am,” said the old lady, 
tremulously. 

And an hour later, Miss Elsie, sitting by a rose-wreathed 
window, penned a brief epistle. 

“ Dearest : Have crossed the firing line. Hold possession of 
the dimity chamber. First redoubt won.” 

***** 

Miss Vane was as good as her word. No white kitten could 
have been, less trouble; at the same time no fairy princess disguised 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


17 


in feline fur could have wielded so instant and powerful a charm. 
In ten' days all Cameron Place was under her spell. Even the 
portrait of the grim Covenanter ancestor in the great hall seemed 
to relax its frown as the sunlight streamed through wide-open 
windows. The quaint, old china vases brimmed with freshly 
plucked roses. The somber silence was broken, with girlish 
laughter and songs. Light and warmth and color followed the 
newcomer at Cameron Place even as they follow the sun. 

Her Mexican hammock, heaped with gay cushions, lit the dull 
piazza. Her silken-lined workbasket filled with bright crewels, 
touched the gloomy hall into light. She could ride; the pride of 
the stable, broken by the young master three years before, yielded 
submissively to her rein. She could shoot; her little silver- 
mounted rifle brought down with unerring aim the hawk that 
had been a very Herod among the downy innocents in the barn- 
yard. Most wonderful of all, she could cook, by strange, new, 
dainty methods that made good Mrs. Cameron open her eyes in 
wonder. 

It was this last accomplishment that conquered the old Squire’s 
grim reserve. Elsie had filled his pipe in a deft fashion, learned 
long ago from her soldier father. She had sung to him evening 
after evening the old Scotch ballads he loved. In her white 
clinging gowns, with roses in her breast and hair, she had been 
a vision of light and loveliness to the old man’s gathering twilight. 
But it was not until she merrily bore in a smoking dish of 
<e haggis ” and placed it before him on the dinner table that the 
Squire gave way openly and entirely. 

“ Eh, the Lord guide us, lass, what witch or warlock taught 
ye this ? ” 

And Elsie had laughed a rippling laugh of triumph, and felt 
that the course of “ national dishes ” at her cooking school had not 
been all in vain. 

But soften as the old folks did to their fair young guest, no 
word of the dark sorrow that sat at their board and shadowed 
their home ever passed their lips. Perhaps it was her seeming 
ignorance of the tragedy that had darkened their lives that made 


18 


A “FORLORN HOPE: 


Elsie’s presence so cheering to the old pair, who proudly shrank 
from their neighbors’ gossiping sympathy. 

The spell of the “ haggis” was still strong upon the Squire 
in the summer evening as he sat in the deepening twilight smok- 
ing the pipe Elsie had filled for him. and listening to her as she 
sang to the accompaniment of her mandolin. The western gorge 
was still aglow with the sunset, though the mountain tops were 
dim and shadowy, and a few faint stars heralded the coming 
night. As the old man looked at the pretty figure aureoled by 
the sunset, he thought of the little maid under the lindens and 
all she might have been to him in these darkened days, with a 
softening pang in his rough Scotch heart. 

Elsie’s song had ceased, and with her hands clasped idly over 
her mandolin she was looking into the gathering shadows. The 
keen old eyes bent upon her became suddenly aware of a wistful 
sadness in the sweet young face, usually so bright and glad. 

“ It’s a bit dull for you here with only two old folks. Maybe, 
as the old woman was saying, I have been over hard in mv bar- 
gaining with you, lass. You are too young to be shut out from 
all junketing and sweethearting. I would na have the place 
given up to a pack of godless rattlebrains, but if there’s any one 
ye’d like to see here in quiet and peace, let him come.” 

“ There is — one,” answered the girl, and there was a new light 
in the eyes uplifted to the old man’s face. 

“ A sweetheart, I’m thinking ? ” The stern tone was softened 
wonderfully. 

“Yes; the dearest, truest, best of sweethearts,” continued the 
sweet voice tremulously. “ But he can not come — I must not let 
him. Ah, it is a sad story ! I have neither father nor mother — 
I had no one until he came and taught me how sweet it is to love 
and be loved. But his people do not want me.” 

“Do not want ye!” It was a good old round Scotch oath 
that burst from the Squire in his indignation. “ Do not want ye , 
lass! Eh, the feckless fools! An’ I’d let the people go to the 
de’il with their wants if I were yer man.” 

“ Oh, no, no — for he loves them, he loves father and mother 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN . 


19 


and home more than I can tell. And it would hurt me so to stand 
between them, to break their hearts — ” 

“ Break their hearts ! It’s their heads that should be broken 
with a blackthorn stick, and Fd like the work ! ” blazed forth the 
old man wrathfully. “ Not to want a lassie like ye — it’s I that 
would give half I am worth to call a girlie like ye my ain.” 

“ Would you ? ” She was on her knees beside him now, the 
sweet face radiant. “ Then, father — Donald’s father — take me for 
your daughter — for — that is the name and place I ask in your 
home — in your heart. Forgive me that I have tried to win -it by 
a woman’s strategy. Donald said if you knew me you would love 
me — and so I stole here under my mother’s name — ” She paused 
trembling, as the old man’s brow blackened and his eyes blazed. 

“ Ah, do not look at me like that,” she pleaded. “ You know 
what you said just now — that you would give half you were 
worth — ” 

“ Ay, and I hold to it, lass, I hold to it,” burst forth the old 
Squire impetuously, while brow and eyes suddenly cleared and 
flashed into light even as his own mountain tops at the touch of the 
sun. “ I hold to the bargain, and to ye, be ye what ye may. Don- 
ald’s sweetheart, are ye ? Eh, but I canna blame the lad. Mother, 
mother, come hear this,” he called to the old wife.. 

“ Mother knows all,” laughed Elsie. “ I told her last night. 
And Donald,” the fair arms wreathed themselves around the old 
man’s neck. “ Donald is not very far away, and you said — you 
know you said — ” The brown eyes sparkled roguishly. 

“ That T’d take a blackthorn stick to them that stood betwixt 
ye,” and old Angus Cameron burst into a laugh that swept away 
the gloom of years. 

“ Ah, ye kelpie ! ye have me meshed neck and heel. But Angus 
Cameron never went back on his word yet. Bid the lad come 
home.” 

***** 

And so the old Covenanter yielded, and the faith came to 
Cameron Hall with the triumph of Elsie’s “ forlorn hope.” 




* 













































































































































































































































AT SAINT MALACHI’S. 


BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 

It was small but select, the Sanctuary Society at Saint 
Malachi’s. It numbered seven ladies only, six of whom were 
veterans in the altar service. Indeed, there was a tradition cur- 
rent among the irreverent that active membership in the S. S. 
conferred immunity from all mortal ills, death and matrimony 
included. So that when a daring cavalier broke in upon the 
maiden-band and carried off Miss Mary Grey, all the prestige 
of a nuptial Mass with surpliced choir did not prevent a certain 
sense of shock. 

And when the gap in the ranks was filled by Daisy Dunn ! 
“ Ah, it was a world of change, indeed/’ as Mrs. Flaherty, who 
had swept the church under three pastors, declared, with an 
ominous nod. 

Daisy Dunn ! a mere slip of a girl, whose short frocks Mrs. 
Flaherty had washed not half a dozen years ago. Daisy Dunn ! 
whose white hands had never touched any weightier domestic 
implement than an embroidery keedle. Daisy Dunn! whose 
mother kept five servants and a French maid. 

True, Daisy was a goddaughter of Miss Mosely, the presi- 
dent of the S. S., and so had a certain amount of pull. “ I’m not 
saying it’s wrong,” said Mrs. Flaherty, guardedly, as one who 
knew the weight of her words in church matters; “ but it’s quare 
to see such a bit of a butterfly around the holy altar, very quare.” 

But “ bit of a butterfly ” as Miss Daisy was in the outer world, 
she proved a busy bee in the sanctuary, as even Mrs. Flaherty 
was forced to confess. Whether it was nature, grace, or simply 


21 


22 


AT SAINT MALACHl'S. 


inborn domesticity, suppressed hitherto by the five servants and 
French maid, she took to her new duties like a duck to water. 
The vigil of every feast found her at her post, from which no 
golf tournament or baseball game or social tea could allure the 
season’s belle. Muffled in a huge gingham apron that effectually 
concealed the chic gown beneath, her pretty golden pompadour 
tied up in a white handkerchief, thick chamois gloves on her 
dainty hands, Miss Daisy was ready to scrape candles, dust 
vases, mend surplices, or polish censers at her senior’s command. 

It was a busy group gathered to-day in the Sunday-school 
chapel preparing the Repository for the coming feast. 

Palms, potted plants, flowers, vases, candlesticks, were gath- 
ered in picturesque profusion for fiaal arrangement, while, poised 
on a step-ladder at a perilous altitude for a lady of her avoir- 
dupois, Miss Mosely surveyed the situation with the ease of a 
practised generalissimo who knows the field. 

Rumors had gone abroad that the adjoining parish was put- 
ting forth unusual efforts this year, and there was unanimous 
resolve that Saint Malachi’s must not be surpassed in its labor 
of love; so it was with a decisive voice the commanding officer 
issued her orders. 

“ Old Mrs. Morton’s lilies have just come ; set them aside, 
please, Miss Grace, for a while. The dear old soul always expects 
to see them directly in front of the tabernacle. I will have 
to ask you. Miss Ellen, to mend the rent in Father Flynn’s alb, 
or he will put his foot into it to-morrow, sure. And what is that 
you say, Miss Rose? Fenton has sent only a dozen palms! I 
put in my order for three dozen fully a month ago ! He must 
fill it or lose Saint Malachi’s custom. Florists really seem to 
lose all conscience at times like these. Let us see if we have all 
the candlesticks ready — ten, twelve, fourteen — My dears, we’ve 
forgotten the Calvert candelabra.” 

A dismayed pause followed this announcement. Then Miss 
James, who had simply stepped in to assist, ventured the flippant 
suggestion : 

“ Oh, cut them out this year, Miss Mosely, they’re so big.” 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


23 


“ Cut them out,” echoed Miss Mosely, in a shocked tone. “ My 
dear, I wouldn’t dare. They were presented to the church fifty 
years ago by old General Calvert, and every great-grandchild of 
his — and they are legion — who will bend a knee at the Reposi- 
tory to-morrow will want to know how, where, and why those 
candelabra have disappeared.” 

(1 Let me get them,” said Miss Daisy, cheerfully. 

“ Get them, child! You couldn’t lift one of the six branches. 
Father Flynn keeps them locked up in the house. He told me 
he had put them out in the dining-room for me. I will ask 
Brother Bernard to bring them over later. Meantime, if you 
wouldn’t mind giving them a little rubbing up where they stand 
» 

“ I call that imposition on a neophyte,” laughed Miss Ruth. 
“ It’s a job we all dodge. Miss Daisy. The six-winged cherubim 
on those candlesticks have to be scrubbed semi-yearly — from 
angels of darkness into angels of light. Keep on your gloves or 
you will be beyond the help of a manicure for weeks,” she 
warned, as, all undaunted. Miss Daisy tripped gaily away to her 
task. 

* * * * * 

“ Stretch out in that big armchair of mine, Tom, and make 
yourself comfortable,” said Father Flynn to the tall, young Uni- 
versity man, who had slipped down to spend Easter week with 
“ Uncle Larry,” and recuperate, after a close call from pneu- 
monia, in this softer air. 

“ Old Biddy is out, like the rest of the women, after an Easter 
bonnet, but she has put a bit of a girleen in her place that you 
can call on if you want anything like a glass of milk or a cup 
of tea. It’s at home, you are, remember, my boy, at home.” 

“ Thank you. Uncle Larry, though home is a word that 
seldom enters my vocabulary just now.” 

“ I know it, my lad, I know it,” said the old priest, tenderly. 
“ It’s a hard, cold, lonely road you’ve walked since your poor 
mother, God rest her, left ye ten years ago. But since you won’t 


24 


AT SAINT MALACHPS. 


follow my tracks as I once hoped, Tom, the next best thing is 
to look np a good girl and make a home for yourself.” 

“ Too heroic a measure, uncle. Girls don’t like me, and I 
don’t think I like girls.” 

“ Tut, tut, tut ! ” said Uncle Larry, shaking his head. “ That’s 
heresy, or next to it, Tom, my lad. Holy Orders or matrimony 
is Mother Church’s teaching to the men. If you don’t like one 
sacrament take the other, but it’s a poor sort of a Catholic that 
balks at both. But you’re half sick now, and it’s no time for 
preaching. Don’t forget to take the milk, and, though I am a 
teetotaler myself, there’s a drop of something stronger for weak- 
lings on my sideboard if you should need it, lad. You want 
bracing up, body and soul, just now.” 

And with this kindly parting word, Father Flynn betook 
himself to his confessional, while Mr. Tom Bryan freed himself 
from collar and necktie, loosened the shirt button from his well- 
shaped throat, and sank back in the depths of the pastoral easy 
chair with the pipe and book that had so far supplanted for him 
all feminine charms. 

Spring came early to Saint Malachi’s. Already the great 
oaks that shaded the grounds were veiled in tender mists of 
green, the crocuses that fringed the box-bordered garden were in 
yellow bloom; from the chapel choir came the silvery voices of 
the children practising the Easter chants. Alleluia , they sang, 
and the note of joy seemed echoed from the wakening earth, 
Alleluia, Alleluia. 

The listener dropped the treatise on “ Criminal Psychology ” 
that he brought down to study during his holiday, and clasp- 
ing his hands over his head, lay back on Uncle Larry’s shabby 
cushions and gave himself up to unusual reverie. 

Bare of all womanly touch as was the dim old room, a 
paternal spirit pervaded its austerity with a homely charm. 
There was a pile of Sunday-school books, a worn catechism on 
the desk, a lot of small shoes, left for gratuitous distribution, 
in a corner ; a half-munched apple under the big sofa, dropped by 
some little sinner called to pastoral judgment, while over the old 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


25 


colonial mantel, with its broken marble pillars, hung an exqui- 
site copy of Raphael's Madonna, that gave life and color and glow 
to the bare monastic walls. 

The sweet eyes of the Virgin Mother seemed to rest upon the 
young man with a tenderness that recalled to him the loss that 
had darkened his early youth. All since had been the cold, grave, 
academic life in which he had won brilliant place and name, but 
love and home were not for him — they were beyond his student 
reach. A strange, new sense of self-pity stirred his heart. It 
had been a hard five weeks’ struggle in the hospital, with death 
perilously near. He closed his eyes with a dull sense of weak- 
ness and weariness, and was startled to find his lashes wet with 
unshed tears. 

“ Good Lord, I must be in for brain softening,” he muttered, 
half angrily. “ Uncle Larry is right. I want a bracer indeed, 
when I go all to pieces like this.” And, starting to his feet, he 
pulled the old-fashioned bell-rope with an impatient hand. 

But though the summons clanged harshly through the house, 
there was no response. Again Mr. Bryan rang, and again, then 
with the natural irritability of the masculine convalescent, de- 
scended the stairs in no friendly mood to old Biddy’s delinquent 
substitute. 

Led by the sound of a fresh, rich voice, he pushed open the 
dining-room door and faced a young person polishing a pair of 
heavily branched silver candlesticks with an unusual amount of 
vigor, while she softly hummed an accompaniment to the chil- 
dren’s Easter hymn. 

There was a rustic flush on the velvet cheek, and a smudge 
on the pretty patrician nose that told the six-winged cherubim 
supporting the silver branches had taxed unaccustomed powers. 
But Mr. Bryan, as he had said, was not wise in womankind. 

“ My good girl,” he began, “ didn’t you hear that bell ? ” 

The good girl’s start and stare were blank and bewildered. 
Such an introductory address from a collarless stranger, hag- 
gard in face and hollow of eye, was a shock, to say the least 
of it. 


26 


AT SAINT MALACHFS. 


“I rang three times/’ continued the intruder, with the pa- 
tience of long suffering, “ but I suppose you don’t know what a 
bell means. I want a glass of milk, and please be quick about it.” 

“ You want a — a — a — I don’t understand,” faltered the 
“ good girl.” 

“A glass of milk — millc — m-i-l-k — milk ” said Mr. Bryan, 
losing patience at such stupidity, “ milk from a cow.” 

The violet eyes fixed upon the speaker began to dilate. This 
must be either madness or intoxication; never in all her twenty 
years of life had man looked or talked so in her presence before. 
And the door was closed behind her and Father Flynn was out ! 

“ I want a glass of milk,” repeated the intruder, “ and that 
bottle of brandy on the sideboard there behind you.” 

“ Don’t; — don’t come any nearer.” The speaker’s voice trem- 
bled, but the soldier’s spirit in her rose valiantly. “ Don’t dare 
come a step nearer, or — ” she grasped the silver cherubim in 
reckless disregard of cost or weight — “I’ll throw this candle- 
stick at you, you coward ! ” The violet eyes were blazing light- 
ning now. “ Walk right out of this room, or — ” 

“Sure, what is it you’re wanting, sur?” and a rosy, rotund 
person appeared at the door, tray in hand. “ I had me hands all 
black wid polishing the stove, as Aunt Biddy tould me, when 
the bell rang, an’ I couldn’t come at wanst. But I brought the 
milk, as his riv’rence bade me, and, shure. Miss Daisy, isn’t this 
the dhirty work for pretty hands like yours — lave me to finish 
it, darlint.” 

There was a pause — an absolutely breathless pause — in which 
the two late antagonists stared at each other speechlessly. Reve- 
lation burst upon the daughter of Eve first. 

“ You — you are Father Flynn’s ‘ Tom,’ ” gasped Miss Daisy, 
who had heard about the expected arrival of her brother’s bril- 
liant class-mate, a woman-hater on whom Dick had warned her 
it was useless to expend any feminine ammunition. 

“And you — you?” Mr. Bryan’s wits, although veritable 
searchlights on all sociological problems, were still in a hopeless 
daze. 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


27 


“ I am Dick Dunn’s sister, Daisy. Perhaps you have heard 
of me,” laughed the lady, roguishly. 

Heard of her! Heard of this matchless queen of hearts! 
Mess room and campus had echoed with her name and fame — 
even to his averted student ears. Mr. Bryan clutched at his 
throat in a vain effort to conceal its reckless dishabille and 
wished he could sink quietly into some convenient rat-hole. 

“ You see,” explained Miss Daisy, continuing to whisk off 
the disguising kerchief from her golden pompadour as she spoke, 
" I am a member of the Sanctuary Society, and came in here to 
clean the candlesticks for the Repository to-morrow, and, and — ” 
as she summed up the situation, she broke off in irrepressible 
laughter. " Oh, what a joke it will be on both of us — what a 
dreadful joke! Dick will keep it up to his dying day. Don’t 
tell, Mr. Bryan, don’t let’s ever tell.” 

“We won’t,” he answered, in a tone of great relief, while 
“ Yonie,” who had altogether missed the point of the scene 
on which she had intruded, stared from one to the other with 
cheering stupidity. "You’re — you’re a trump, Miss Daisy. I 
mean that you’re — you’re the most delightfully sensible girl I ever 
met. Shake hands, will you, on that proposition? We’ll never 
teB.” 

And they never did. 

When Father Flynn came in an hour or two later, the six- 
winged cherubim had been changed from dark angels to spirits 
of dazzling light, but it was by Yonie’s vigorous hands, while 
for once the youngest and fairest of the S. S. was a derelict to 
Sanctuary duty. 

Ripples of youthful laughter came from the rectory parlor, 
where Miss Daisy had brewed a milk punch for the interesting 
invalid after her father’s time honored recipe, and Tom — the 
cold, the clever, the brilliant, the woman-hating Tom — was her 
unresisting victim forever. 

“ Eh, God bless us ! ” murmured Uncle Larry to himself, as 
he looked from his favorite nephew to the flower of his flock, and 
wondered at the light and glow that kindled the pale young 


28 


AT SAINT MALACHFS. 


student face, a while ago so sad and weary. “I couldn’t ask 
anything better for either of them. But,” he added aloud, with 
a paternal twinkle in his eye, “ isn’t this a sudden conversion, 
Tom, a wonderfully sudden conversion?” 

“ It is,” answered Tom, hastily. “ Uncle Larry was lecturing 
me this afternoon on some unorthodox opinions of mine, Miss 
Daisy. I retract them all, uncle. You were right, altogether 
right. And I may call to-morrow. Miss Daisy ? ” 

And he called the morrow, and the next morrow, and the 
next. 

And before the crocuses in Uncle Larry’s garden bloomed 
again, there was another nuptial Mass with surpliced choir in old 
Saint Malachi’s, and the six-winged cherubim shone in all their 
glory upon the high altar that the Sanctuary Society had decked 
with loving hands as the “ bit of a butterfly ” fluttered from their 
maiden ranks forever. 


/ 




A BRIER ROSE. 


BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 

A light breeze stirred the white muslin curtains. The breath 
of the budding roses came into the quaint old parlor, where the 
high-nosed Peytons of four generations frowned down from the 
wainscoted walls upon Angus Grafton, leaning against the tall 
mantel-shelf, his strong, grave face pathetic in its tenderness, its 
perplexity, its pain. 

For Dolly, pretty brown-eyed Dolly, whose tip-tilted nose defied 
all the traditions of her race, was standing before him in one of 
those mutinous feminine moods that defy masculine comprehen- 
sion. 

“ It is for the last time, Dolly,” he said, with an odd catch in 
his deep voice. 

“You have said that three times before,” answered Dolly, 
mischievously. 

“I know it,” he continued, and his tone grew steadier and 
stronger. “ I have been an absolute fool for the past six months. 
But I have determined to take my folly in hand, and — and — 
master it.” 

There was a ring in the words that an older and wiser woman 
would have heard and heeded. But naughty Dolly only filliped a 
rose-leaf from her ruffled gown. 

“We must understand each other, Dolly — ” 

“ Oh, we couldn’t,” she answered, quite decisively. “ At least 
I couldn’t, I know. Understanding things always made my head 
ache, even at school. Sister Angela said it was because my mind 
had never been trained to think.” 

(i Then why didn’t she train it ? ” asked Dr. Grafton, a faint 

29 


30 


A BRIER ROSE. 


smile flickering over his face as he realized how very correct was 
Sister Angela’s diagnosis. 

“ She tried/’ answered Dolly, “ but it was no use. Aunt Betty 
had let me grow my own way too long — like her brier roses. She 
can’t train them up the porch, tie them as she will. Sister Angela 
might have done something, but she had not time. Uncle Dick 
only left me at the convent a year. He was afraid that I would 
turn Catholic if he kept me there any longer. And perhaps” — 
there was a curious softening of the roguish face — “ I might. I 
used to sit in the chapel in the evening and listen to the nuns sing- 
ing in the choir, and think — and think — 0 dear ! ” said Dolly, 
dimpling into her naughty self again. “ I often wish I was a nun 
now, with a pretty ruffled cap like Sister Angela’s, and no need to 
bother about hats and gowns.” 

Dr. Grafton laughed outright. Catholic as he was himself, the 
picture of Dolly in conventual robe seemed an absurdity. And yet, 
even as he laughed, he realized that Sister Angela’s efforts had not 
altogether failed. There had always been an indefinable charm 
about Aunt Betty’s brier rose that had told of an uplifting 
touch. He had been conscious of a better, truer nature under 
Dolly’s most tormenting moods. It was this intangible, elusive spell 
that had held him captive for the last six months at the little 
coquette’s feet. 

“ You could never be a nun, Dolly,” he said, softly. “ But — 
but — some day, when you are all my own, I know that you will be- 
lieve and hope as I do — ” 

“ I don’t promise,” answered Dolly, with a wilful shake of her 
curls. “ I don’t promise anything.” 

“ You forget,” he said, gravely. “ There is one thing you have 
promised.” 

“ Ho,” persisted Dolly, like the naughty little brier rose she 
was. “ I have not promised anything. I told you that I cared for 
you, and I do. I always like people that like me, and I tell 
them so, because I don’t want to hurt their feelings.” 

“And — and” — the speaker’s lips had grown white — “you 
mean you tell all men the same thing? ” 


MARY T. WAOGAMAN. 


31 


“ Oh, no ! Not all ” answered Dolly, demurely. 

“ And you wish me to understand that you have made me sim- 
ply a puppet and a plaything with the rest?” 

“ I never said anything like that, I am sure,” replied Dolly, in 
a much aggrieved tone. “ I’ve told you twenty times I liked you.” 

“ Liked me, Dolly!” 

“ Well, loved you, then,” corrected Dolly, in the softest of little 
whispers. “ And you said that was enough.” 

But there was no answering smile in the grave, stern face to 
which she lifted her bewitching eyes. 

“No, not enough,” her companion answered, in a new, hard 
voice, “ not enough when you tell twenty men the same pretty lie. 
Listen, Dolly ! I told you I had taken my folly in hand. If I 
can not bind you, I can at least master myself. Put your hand*in 
mine, promise me in all truth and earnestness that you will be 
my wife, or else — ” He paused as if he could not finish the 
sentence. 

“ Or else what ? ” asked Dolly, holding up her pretty head de- 
fiantly at this master tone. 

“ Else there must be an end to this maddening mockery. I 
shall leave you forever, Dolly.” 

A cold chill like a frost breath went through the heart of the 
little brier rose; then she put out all her pretty prickles to hide 
the shiver and the pang. 

i “Ah, well! I’ll try to bear it,” she said, with a light little 
laugh. “ Good-by, Dr. Grafton.” 

“ Good-by,” he answered, taking the hand she held out to him 
and nearly crushing it for a moment in his own. “ Good-by, and 
God forgive you, Dolly.” 

Groping, like one almost blind, for his hat and cane, he turned 
from - the room, leaving Dolly breathless with pain and dis- 
may under the simpering portrait of another Miss Dorothy Peyton, 
who had played as recklessly with men’s hearts and hopes one hun- 
dred years before. 

“ The horrid man ! ” gasped Dolly at last, shaking her pretty 
pink-tipped fingers. “ He fairly crushed my hand— and— and — 


32 


A BRIER ROSE. 


how white and queer he looked.” Then she dimpled into roguish 
smiles again. “ He will be at the ball to-night, I know, just the 
same.” And the little witch, sure of her spell, tripped gaily up- 
stairs to put fresh ribbons in the white gauze gown which Angus 
Grafton liked the best of all her dainty fripperies. 

And a very fairy queen she looked as she floated through the 
dance that evening, her golden curls perked up in a jaunty coronet 
on her graceful head, her fluttering fan a scepter whose sway none 
dared dispute. 

Never had she flashed and sparkled and dimpled more bewitch- 
ingly upon her train of admirers, who were ready to fight for a 
smile, a word, a glance. 

But there was one who did not come ; one whom her slightest 
whisper had hitherto lured from book, desk, fireside, from all but 
the path of duty, to follow her dancing feet. And as the merry 
hours sped on, and still that strong, grave face failed to look upon 
her triumph, Dolly Became deadly weary of it all, and felt that fop- 
pish young Dr. Herbert was the only sensible man in the room, 
when at the stroke of twelve he stopped beside her to say “ good 
night.” 

“ Awful sorry I have to leave so soon, Miss Dolly, but I must 
be on hand now for double work.” 

“ Double work ! ” echoed Dolly, vaguely. 

“Yes; of course you know Grafton leaves to-night. Foolish 
thing for a man like him to volunteer, I think. But I suppose that 
last call for surgeons at the front stirred all the heroic blood in 
him. I intended to see him ofi — but — by George, there goes his 
train now ! ” And over the sweet strains of the Strauss waltz rose 
the shrill shriek of the locomotive as it tore its way through the 
midnight darkness without. 

“ You mean that — he — has — gone ! ” panted Dolly, clutching 
her little fan as if it could uphold her in a dissolving universe. 

“ Gone? Why, yes — surely he said good-by to you? ” and the 
young doctor looked at her curiously. 

“ Oh, yes ; of course,” answered Dolly, feeling that all her 
world was gazing at her through those wondering eyes, and, rising 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


33 


to the situation as only the born coquette can, though lights and 
flowers and dancers seemed whirling in a dizzy circle around her. 
“ He said good-by this morning. I did not know he was going 
quite so soon. Ah, this is your waltz, I believe, Mr. Lawson/’ 
and Dolly bent a bewitching smile on the newcomer at her side. 
“ Would you mind sitting it out in the conservatory ? And if you 
will get me one of those lovely little pink ices downstairs, I will 
hide away under that big oleander and wait for it.” And while 
J ack Lawson went for the pink ice Dolly got the five minutes to 
herself that she needed to steady her heart and brain and nerves, 
so that none might see that she had played too recklessly with a 
strong man’s love — and lost it. 

* * ❖ * ❖ 

It was a deadly August day. A brassy sun was scorching the 
little Southern seaport, whose tropic languor had been galvanized 
into unwonted life by the battle thrill quivering through the land. 
And now the bloody tide from San Juan and Santiago was rolling 
back upon this friendly coast. The white sands were alive with 
moving troops, wagons, hospital attendants. Transports laden 
with the sick, wounded, and dying were unloading their ghastly 
freight at the narrow wharves ; doctors and nurses were hurrying 
from all parts of the Union to help and to save. 

In the long stretch of barracks that had been hastily trans- 
formed into a hospital lay Angus Grafton, trembling between life 
and death. Shattered with shot, wasted with fever, he was hut a 
shadow of the stalwart man whose heroic service was on the lips 
of every soldier in his regiment. 

But no echo of this grateful praise could reach the doctor’s ear 
now. For more than five weeks he had lain in a dull stupor, 
broken only by faint gleams of consciousness, during which he 
had seemed wearily indifferent to life or death. 

“ He has a chance still,” said the keen-eyed old surgeon, who 
watched with especial interest over his brave young confrere, “a 
fighting chance still. But he must be roused to make the fight. It 
would be well to send for some of his people — mother, wife, sister, 
sweetheart — anybody very near and dear to him. This is no 


34 


A BRIER ROSE. 


place for visitors, I know, but we must save a fine fellow like Graf- 
ton at any cost.” 

And the clear-eyed Sister who, with many others, had been 
t summoned from other fields of duty to hospital service, looked 
' through the pockets of the tattered blood-stained uniform for some 
letter or paper to guide her. She found no word, no line, only 
the surgeon’s notebook, a little Vade Mecum, and a velvet case 
from which laughed a fair, sweet, roguish face that Sister Angela 
— knew. 

* * * * * 

Drifting through troubled dreams, clouded by dimly remem- 
bered horrors of blood and carnage, Angus Grafton became sud- 
denly aware of a faint breath of perfume that seemed to hold cap- 
tive his wandering spirit. 

What was it? The dulled brain stirred feebly with the ques- 
tion, and memory seemed to thrill with a waking pain. A rose ! 
the breath of a brier rose ! Ah, he was dreaming death-dreams, 
he thought, opening his heavy eyes wearily. 

No. There upon the little table at his side stood a great white 
bowl, fairly brimming with bloom and fragrance. Eoses, brier 
roses, thriving and sweet and fresh — the wayward blossoms that 
would not be bound or tied ! And into the hollow, burning eyes 
that gazed upon the flowers there welled two great tears that told 
how weak the strong, proud man had grown. 

“ 0 look, Aunt Betty, look ! He sees, he knows ! Oh, I can’t 
wait another minute. I’ll have to speak to him,” and a little 
white-robed figure fluttered out from the screening curtain behind 
the cot — and Dolly ! — was it Dolly or some mocking phantom in 
her shape ? She was down on her knees beside his pillow, holding 
his wasted hands, sobbing out between smiles and tears : “ Angus, 
dear Angus, it is I — I — your own Dolly— -your little brier rose ! 
Sister Angela sent me word that you needed me — and — I came 
with Aunt Betty this morning. Oh, won’t you try to — to live — for 
me, Angus? I have loved you all the time. I have cried every 
night since you left me. Don’t leave me again, Angus ; don’t leave 
me again.” 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 


35 


And at that sweet, low cry the shadow of Death seemed to van- 
ish, and the light of life kindled the pale, wasted face. 

“ Never again,” came the faint whisper through the parched 
lips. “ My Dolly — never again.” 

And then Dr. Grafton proceeded to get well in a way that 
broke all professional records, and there was a wedding in the old 
Virginia home in October that eclipsed anything the four genera- 
tions of high-nosed Peytons had ever witnessed before. 

The roses — the wayward brier roses — defied all the laws of 
Linnasus by blooming under the very nose of Jack Frost for this 
auspicious occasion. They garlanded the rooms, they decked the 
table, they wreathed the cake, and — Dr. Grafton would have it so in 
spite of all fashion’s protests — they crowned with their winsome, 
blushing blossoms the happy little bride. 











THE BLACK SHEEP’S CHRISTMAS. 

BY MARY T. WAGGAMAN. 

He was a black sheep — a very black sheep, indeed. If there 
were a white spot upon him no human eye could descry it. Shaggy 
Dan (he had half a dozen sobriquets equally as expressive) had 
always been a black sheep, kicked and cuffed, cursed and hounded ; 
a sheep without owner or shepherd, without pasture or fold. 

There had been one brief interval in this long, dark record; 
an interval certainly not of Shaggy Dan’s choosing. 

A dozen or more years ago, when, in a distant city, Jim Finney 
had nearly done for him in a drunken brawl, he had been taken 
to a hospital and nursed back to life. It had been a close call, 
for Jim’s blow had been a deadly one. For days, weeks or months, 
Shaggy Dan never knew which, he had lain like one in a half- 
waking dream. 

And now like a dream the memory came back to him of the 
spotless ward, the snowy bed, the gentle, black-robed figure watch- 
ing over him night and day. In his wildest fever her touch could 
calm, her voice could soothe him. Sister, they called her — Sister 
Something, he could never quite catch the other name — but with a 
civility born of his weakness, he had substituted “Lady Sister” for 
the unknown title. For weeks he had been the “Lady Sister’s poor 
boy” (he was but twenty then), doomed, as the doctors believed, 
either to death or hopeless idiocy. But skill and patient care had 
conquered, and slowly but surely the veil had lifted from his mind, 
and he had come out of the shadow through which Lady Sister 
had led him, as a little child. As a child she had talked to him, 
sung to him, prayed over him in those dim shadowy days when, 
shorn of all manhood’s strength and cunning, he lay at her sweet 

37 


38 


THE BLACK SHEEP'S CHRISTMAS. 


mercy ; days whose memories came back to him blurred and broken 
even in his darkest moods. 

The soft touch upon his brow, the low whisper in his ear, the 
dim gleam of the night lamp flickering upon the white wall, where 
hung the picture of the Shepherd tarrying home the lost sheep, 
and the sweet, pale, worn face, with its dark bright eyes, watching 
him night and day. Like a dream it all had passed, and “Lady 
Sister” with it, for before he was well she had been taken ill her- 
self, worn out with hospital work, so it was said, and had been sent 
off to lighter duty in another city. 

And Shaggy Dan had gone forth in renewed strength only to 
turn into wilder, darker ways, wandering at his reckless will 
through bog and mire and thorn, until at last the strong hand of 
the law had been laid upon him; thrust behind prison bars he 
had been held for months, all the evil passions within him 
smouldering under the embers of a sullen despair. 

Shaggy Dan was at his blackest, perhaps, on this special Christ- 
mas Eve. Seated on the iron cot in his cell he listened to the 
sounds of mirth and merriment that penetrated even the grim 
walls and casements of his prison — to song and carol and shout, 
the gay laughter of happy children, the chiming of bells, the blare 
of horns, the cries of street fakirs and venders — all the glad notes 
that made up the joyous holiday chorus without. And a fiercer, 
wilder resentment awoke in his breast at the thought that he was 
debarred from all the rough pleasures the season had once held for 
him — the coarse revel, the rude feasting, the mad carouse, that to 
this poor earthling were all that Christmas brought to mind. 

“Here’s a Christmas gift for you, 24,” called Dwight, the turn- 
key, thrusting a small package through the grated door. “Step up 
lively and get it, for I’ve just forty more to give round before 
seven o’clock to-night. They are from the Ladies’ Mission.” 

Dan shambled forward and took the package held out to him. 
Tied with a bit of blue ribbon were two pairs of knit socks, two 
pocket handkerchiefs, and a tract entitled, “Sinner, Awake !” 

The “Sinner” growled out a graceless oath. 


MARY T. 1 fAGGA&Alt. 


$$ 

“You’re a nice one/’ said Dwight, his severity somewhat tem- 
pered by the holiday spirit. “Maybe it will be more to your taste 
to hear the warden has ordered a big dinner for to-morrow. Tur- 
key and fixings for all hands.” 

“Rum ?” queried Dan, an eager blink in his deep-set eyes.- 

“Rnm!” echoed Dwight, “not much! The warden ain’t a : 
loonatick outright. Hot coffee and plenty of it is all we serve.” 

“Curse them all !” snarled Shaggy Dan, as Dwight kept on 
down the dusky corridor. “A throwing their Christmas gifts and 
Christmas dinners at us — in a hole like this ! ‘Sinners, Awake !’ 
Ain’t much need to pitch that to me. Wake! I’m pretty wide 
awake, as they’ll find out before long. 

“Let’s try it agin,” and, casting a keen glance through the 
grating of his door into the deserted corridor, he drew from his 
pocket a bit of iron, a great nail that with infinite care and 
patience had been bent and flattened and shaped. 

“I didn’t gradooate with the sharpest cracksmen in Chicago fur 
nothing. It was pretty nigh right yesterday. Let’s see how it 
goes now.” And bending down he stealthily inserted the rude tool 
in the keyhole. A blasphemous cry of triumph burst from his 

lips. “It works ! by it works now,” with another oath. “I’ll 

be out of this hole to-night. And — I’ll have my Christmas or 
swing for it.” 

***** 

Sister Seraphine was putting her last touches to the Christmas 
altar. 

A beautiful altar it was, as it stood all decked for the midnight 
Mass, loaded with palms and evergreen, the tall white tapers in 
their gorgeous candelabra rising amid glowing poinsettia blossoms, 
above the spotless altar linen and filmy lace. 

Sister Seraphine’s little wasted frame was thrilling with 
simple, loving pride, for bare and austere as were the convent 
school-rooms and corridors, the little chapel of Our Lady of Mercy 
was rich in ex-votos from loving pupils, who thus testified their 
affectionate devotion to their convent home. 


40 


THE BLACK SHEEP’S CHRISTMAS. 


And Sister Seraphine, who had been sacristan for nearly a dozen 
years, since failing health had necessitated her retirement from 
the more active work of her Order, had a tender personal knowl- 
edge of every donor and every gift. 

“We must have all onr beautiful things out to-night,” 
she had said to Sister Claudia, her sturdy white-veiled assistant 
in the little sacristy. “The lovely altar cloth of drawn work, that 
Lola Martinez sent us from Mexico. Poor, wild little Lola ! she 
died five years ago — may God give her rest. And the lace that 
was Nellie Jessop’s bridal veil ; dear child, she had a fancy to keep 
it spotless forever on Our Lady’s altar. And the vestments that 
Marie Bonville sent us from Paris as a thank-offering on the birth 
of her boy. And Mother said we could have the chalice set with 
Angie Loraine’s jewels, that her father gave us when Angie joined 
the Poor Clares. Dear children ! We must pray for them all to- 
night. Ah, Claudia, when we think of the cold stable and manger, 
how sweet it seems to have so beautiful a resting-place for the divine 
Babe ! And then” — Sister Seraphine paused to catch her breath 
painfully, while the soft dark eyes shone like stars, “it is the last 
time I will dress the Christmas altar, Claudia. Next year there 
will be some one else.” 

“God bless ye, don’t be saying the likes of that,” said honest 
Claudia huskily. 

“Ah, you know it, and I know it, and the doctor knows it,” 
answered Sister Seraphine brightly. “And after all, Claudia, 
dear, is it not for the best ? Of what use have I been for the past 
ten years, but to put candles and flowers at our dear Lord’s feet ? 
No strength to nurse, no health to work, no voice to teach.” 

“Whisht, now, whisht, or I’ll be losing me temper this holy 
Christmas time,” said Sister Claudia. “Don’t every wan of us 
know that ye’ve done wurruk enough in yer day for forty wimmen ? 
Tin years in that City Hospital in Chicago, a nursing all the 
villyuns and vagabones of the town! It was that kilt ye up 
entirely.” 

“Ah, those were good years, happy years!” said little Sister 


MARY T. WAGGAMAU. 


41 


Seraphine. “So much to do for suffering bodies, for sinful souls. 
There was one, Claudia, the last I ever nursed, of whom I think 
so often. A great, big, black-haired, black-eyed young fellow; 
wild and wicked indeed, but, oh, so pitifully ignorant, untaught, 
neglected! He had brain trouble for weeks, and I had charge 
of him. Ho one else could manage him, but with me he was like 
a lamb, a poor, lost lamb. I was taken ill before he recovered, 
and then I was sent East. And I suppose he drifted back again 
into his evil ways. But it is one of the regrets of my life that I 
had to leave him before his mind quite cleared. Poor Dan ! If 
I had not broken down I might have held, guided, saved this lost 
sheep. 

“But here I am keeping you chattering over my vestments, 
when you have other work to do down-stairs. Lift down the heavy 
bos with the chalice and ciborium, Claudia, dear — and then you can 
go, and God bless you for your loving help.” 

When all was done at last in the little sacristy, and Sister 
Claudia had gone to other duties, Sister Seraphine turned into the 
sanctuary, and kneeling down on the altar step prayed as such 
sweet souls pray. How long she knelt there before her Christmas 
altar she did not know, but at length the sound of the community 
bell roused her, and she rose to go. But before she turned toward 
the chapel door, she stepped back for a final glance at her little 
sacristy, to see that nothing had been forgotten, that robe and 
vestment and sacred vessel all were prepared for the midnight 
feast. 

And then, then for one awful moment her brave heart stood 
still. Revealed by the dim taper of gas she had left burning, 
stood a huge, hulking black figure, his sacrilegious hand resting 
on the jeweled chalice itself. 

Frozen with horror, she could neither move nor speak, but 
stood, white, mute, motionless under the intruder’s startled gaze. 
For an instant there was a wild, murderous gleam in the deep-set 
eyes : then they widened into terrified amaze, and the robber fell 
back with a shiver against the sacristy wall. 


42 


THE BLACK SHEEP'S CHRISTMAS'. 


“L& j&j Sister !” he gasped. “It’s — it^s Lady Sister 

“Dan L” Like a revelation was the flash that kindled Sister' 
Seraphine’s numb mind and heart and soul. “Dan Devlin ! 
Merciful God ! My poor boy !” 

“Don’t, don’t,” he cried hoarsely, holding up his hand as if 
to ward off a blow, “don’t. Lady Sister, don’t speak — don’t pray 
over me again. Don’t — look at me — don’t ” 

“Are you afraid of me — of your old nurse — your Lady Sister, 
Dan?” 

“Afeerd? No — but I can’t, can’t bear it. I’m a devil — I’m 
worse than a devil now ! I’ve busted out of jail, I’ve come here 
to rob, to murder. I’d a done it ! yes, I would a done it in another 
minute if I had not seen your face ” 

“My poor, poor boy !” 

“Don’t ye call me that, don’t,” the speaker tugged wildly at his 
neck cloth. “It chokes me to hear it. I give up ! There !” he 
flung a heavy iron spike on the floor at her feet. “That’s all I’ve 
got. I give up, Lady Sister! I won’t tech nobody. Call the 
cops and let ’em drag me back to that hell whar I belong.” 

A thousand thoughts seemed to flash instantaneously into 
Sister Seraphine’s mind. It was one of those moments which 
are beyond the grasp of Time. Wisdom, prudence, justice, 
called sternly for the punishment of this transgressor. But 
was there not One, the Judge of heaven and earth, who bent 
to write on the sands when the stoners of the sinner demanded 
the letter of the law? 

And to-night from the Christmas altar, the Christmas 
manger, there came not the voice of Justice, but the voice of 
Love. And that voice rose supreme over the clamor in sweet 
Sister Seraphine’s heart. 

“Dan,” she paused breathlessly, “I saved you once — I must 
save you again. Go, go as you came. Go to some far-off 
place, where you can be free, where you can be good, where you 
will never — never — do anything like this again. Remember, 
I believe in you, I trust you to live hereafter — as — as — my 


MARY T. WAGGAMAN . 


43 


poor boy should. Quick, for some on©. is coming. In God’s 
name, Dan, go !” 

He stared at her for one moment as if he were dazed — then 
with the quick instinct of the hunted thing, he turned and 
vanished into the dark corridor beyond, just as good Sister 
Claudia came bustling back into the sacristy. 

“I was that onaisy, I came to look afther ye, Sister darlint. 
And shure it’s as could here as the grave! God bless us, it’s 
the porch windy open widout — it must be thrying to reach 
hivin indade ye are to-night !” And then Claudia stopped short 
in her loving remonstrance for her “Sister darlint” had reeled over 
in a dead faint, into her faithful arms. 

❖ ❖ * * * 

Long months of patient suffering followed this Christmas 
Eve. The June roses found the little Sister Sacristan lying on 
her couch by the open window, where, weak, and almost speechless 
she was waiting her Master’s call. Many were the loving, grate- 
ful tributes sent during these weary months to the dying Sister 
from those she had served so devotedly in the long ago. 

So it was with no surprise that she received a letter bearing the 
Australian postmark, and directed to the “Sister who had charge 
of the City Hospital in Chicago in 1885.” It was from the parish 
priest in a little Australian town, and Sister Seraphine’s dimming 
eyes perused the brief lines with joyful amazement, that brought 
the hectic flush back to her dying cheek. 

“Dear Sister/’ ran the letter. 

“I trust this will reach you, though I do not even know your 
name. I write at the request of one of your old patients, Dan 
Devlin. He wishes me to tell you that he is here under my 
care, and trying his best to obey your parting words and be a 
sober, honest, good man. I have found him work with a large 
farmer, where he is happily removed from all dangerous asso- 
ciates. He has been baptized and made his confession, and is 
under instruction for confirmation and first communion. I must 
add in my own name that I have never seen a poor, neglected, un- 


THE BLACK SHEEP'S CHRISTMAS. 


• 44 


taught soul turn more eagerly and earnestly into God’s ways. H<e 
begs me to thank you for all you have done for him, and to tell 
‘Lady Sister’ her black sheep is safe in the fold. 

“Sincerely yours in Christ, 

“F. X. Brennan.” 

Sister Seraphine’s eyes filled with happy tears, and that even- 
ing with the letter still folded in her wasted hands, she went home 
to her God. 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER. 

BY ANNA T. SADLIER. 

I. 

Frederick Weston sat at his office desk and laughed till a 
clerk from the outer office thrust in his head by a movement of un- 
controllable curiosity, withdrawing it again with a muttered ex- 
cuse, though not without having seen his employer convulsed, in- 
deed, by laughter. There was no apparent cause for his merri- 
ment, unless it might be an open letter which he held in his hand. 
He read it over and over again, with increasing amusement, until 
a sudden thought occurred to him. He had been reading what 
was not meant for his eyes. He referred to a city directory, put the 
letter into an envelope, sealed and redirected it. When it was 
stamped, he sent it forth it by the inquisitive clerk, who read upon 
it the address of a lady : 

Miss Blanche Lewis, 

— Wabash Avenue. 

Having done ’this, Mr. Weston dismissed the matter from his 
mind, being presently absorbed in the multifarious affairs which 
claimed the attention of the head of an immense mercantile con- 
cern. But when it was time to leave his desk, he took off his 
office coat and carefully adjusted an immaculate tweed, replacing 
his necktie, and, as he did so, surveying his iron-gray hair and a 
complexion somewhat weatherbeaten by the storms of almost fifty 
years with a smile of cynical humor. 

The following morning’s post brought to — Wabash Avenue 
two letters for Miss Blanche Lewis. The one was an epistle written 
by herself to an intimate girl friend, now readdressed back to her 

45 


46 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER. 


in a bold, masculine hand. The other was a funny little note 
from the aforesaid feminine correspondent, declaring that she had 
received, evidently by mistake, a business note written to Mr. 
Frederick Weston, applying for a position as stenographer in his 
vast establishment. She further declared that she had sent on the 
note to its proper address. 

While Blanche Lewis perused first one, then the other of these 
communications, the hot blood surged into her face; she bit her 
lip and uttered more than one exclamation of annoyance. 

“ Oh, what will he think ! How can I ever go near him now ? 
And that tiresome Alice must go and send on the note asking for 
an appointment ! 99 

Her cheeks still burning and her breath coming quickly with 
vexation and distress, she turned once more to the misdirected 
epistle which she had written to Alice, and which had so obviously 
fallen into the wrong hands, and read it over again : 

“ My Dearest Alice : I am just now trying, it is true, for a 
position as stenographer, but I am so deadly tired of working and 
living and dressing upon a pittance and seeing mother and the 
children want for almost everything, that I am resolved to bend 
all my energies toward securing an aged millionaire, widower pre- 
ferred. J ust picture me arrayed in purple and fine linen, driving 
in my own carriage, occupying a mansion and presiding at 
elaborate dinner tables. Is it very conceited to say that I think 
I should cut quite as good a figure as half the millionairesses in 
Chicago? I have good abilities, I am well educated, as girls go, 
just twenty-four, and of respectable folk. 

“As to the obliging widower who will transform me into a 
queen of society, it matters very little what he is like, so that he 
be gilded, gilded, gilded! Triple plate! Wasn’t there some old 
king long ago who turned into gold, or could turn things he 
touched into that me'tal? Well, he’s the very sort I am looking 
for. Perhaps he may limp, or he may squint, or be blind of one 
eye, a little deaf, a trifle rheumatic. What does it matter, if his 
purse and his bankbook be in good condition? You, with your 
ideas of ‘ love in a cottage,’ will hold up your lily-white hands in 


ANNA T. 8ADLIER. 


47 


horror at my mercenary self. But the truth remains that I am 
weary of poverty, and I shall not ill-treat the millionaire, though 
I know he will be execrable. I detest him already, odious old 
man, with a limp and a squint, blind, deaf, and rheumatic, and 
yet holding on to life with a fierce grip. I shall do him credit, 
though, and ride smiling beside him in our carriage. He won’t 
be able to see how I look, by the way, if he’s blind. But that 
doesn’t matter. I shall be a model wife and not mind him at 
all if he’s cantankerous, as, of course, he’s sure to be. Good-by, 
dearest. Wish me success in discovering my millionaire, and, 
in the mean time, as I must be sordid and try to live upon a salary, 
pray that I may get the position of stenographer. I have written 
to Mr. Weston, of the great mercantile house — another tiresome, 
old frump, I suppose. 

“ Ever yours lovingly, 

“ Blanche Lewis." 

Blanche Lewis crumpled the letter angrily in her hand and 
began to pace the room. 

“ What will that odious Mr. Weston think ! If he should 
chance to be a widower or anything, why, goodness me, he may 
imagine that it is with a view to that I am trying to get in as 
stenographer. In any case, it puts me in such an absurd light ! ’’ 

She sat down and forced herself to think more calmly over 
the situation. She finally persuaded herself that it was very un- 
likely that so busy a man as Mr. Weston would take time to read 
the nonsensical scribbling of one girl to another, and she was con- 
firmed in this view of the affair on receiving by that afternoon’s 
post a very staid and very formal note from Mr. Weston, type- 
written and couched in the strictest business terms, asking her 
to call upon the following day. Also to bring her references, and 
be prepared to give a practical illustration of her capabilities. 
She did not know how Mr. Weston had chuckled to himself as he 
directed this missive, inwardly declaring that he must really see 
this girl and find out what she was like— that she must be original. 
He laughed even yet as he recalled certain words and phrases in 
the misdirected letter. 


48 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER. 


Quite reassured by the formal tone of the note, Blanche Lewis 
resolved to call at Mr. Weston’s establishment upon the succeed- 
ing day. Next morning she made a most careful toilet, in a 
severely plain fashion, suitable to the occasion, but which chanced 
to be particularly becoming, and which set off to the best ad- 
vantage her fine figure, her gift of “ style.” Her soft, lustrous 
brown hair appeared in shining waves under her walking hat, 
her creamy complexion, ordinarily colorless, was suffused with a 
delicate flush, and her brown eyes sparkled from the exhilaration 
of the walk. 

When Mr. Weston looked up from his desk he saw a young 
Hebe, who, by her beauty, her freshness, her healthfulness, seemed 
to diffuse a charm over the prosaic office. This, with the interest 
already excited by her letter, caused Mr. Weston to regard her 
visit as a pleasurable incident in the day’s happenings. He bade 
her be seated with a brus\c civility which was almost grim, and 
leaning back in his chair surveyed her an instant with a grave and 
critical air which gave no clew to his thoughts. It momentarily 
flashed through his mind that she would, indeed, adorn the head 
of a dinner table or the principal seat in a landau, but he pro- 
ceeded to business. 

“ I understand from your note that you wish an engagement 
as stenographer? Have you had any experience, Miss Lewis?” 

“I have been over a year with Long, Mills, Lawton & Co.,” 
answered Miss Lewis, conscious of an unwonted timidity by reason 
of that unlucky letter. 

“You have a reference from that firm, I presume?” Mr. 
Weston inquired, and he extended his hand for the letter of 
recommendation, which Miss Lewis at once produced. Having 
read it carefully, he remarked : 

“ That is quite satisfactory. I have besides a few lines from 
my friend, Mr. Leonard Devlin, who tells me that he is well ac- 
quainted with you, and seems most anxious that you should secure 
this position.” 

“ Oh, yes; Mr. Devlin is an old friend of ours,” cried Blanche,, 
brightening up. “ It was so good of him to write.” 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


49 


Mr. Weston did not think it necessary to inform her that Mr. 
Devlin spoke of her as a “ glorious little girl,” but he said in- 
stead : 

“ I shall now dictate, if you please, a few paragraphs, till I 
find out your rate of speed before definitely entering into an en- 
gagement.” 

Blanche Lewis felt herself upon her mettle to justify Mr. 
Devlin’s recommendation and her own merits as candidate for a 
responsible position in an important house, and she acquitted 
herself wonderfully well. Mr. Weston was, in fact, surprised 
at her skill and the rapidity with which she took down the notes 
which he read from a newspaper at his elbow. He had meant 
to make the test as easy as possible, to oblige Mr. Devlin, whom he 
held in high estimation, and also because he was as much pre- 
possessed by the girl’s appearance and her bright, frank manner 
as he had been amused and interested by her letter. Therefore, he 
had done an unusual thing, in the annals of his firm, by personally 
conducting an examination, which was usually passed over to 
Mr. Brown, the hard-headed and uncompromising manager. He 
now found himself, with some surprise, obliged to increase his 
rate of speed, as he found that Miss Lewis was in advance of 
him, poising her pencil in her delicate fingers and looking up 
to catch his next words with quick, bright glances. It was not 
altogether an unpleasant experience, and Mr. Weston told himself 
that, did circumstances and expediency permit, he would very 
much like to employ himself daily in dictating to so charming 
a stenographer. In point of fact, however, he made use of the 
services of a. spectacled young man, an expert at his trade, but a 
most uninteresting personality. 

At last he laid down the newspaper. Miss Lewis transcribed 
her notes, and he declared, with a perfectly businesslike and 
formal gravity, that he found Miss Lewis very well fitted for 
the post of stenographer, and that he should inquire at once in 
what department her services could be utilized. He rang the 
bell and requested the attendance of Mr. Brown. That worthy, 
a grizzled veteran, who held every employee of the place in awe, 


50 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER . 


appeared promptly, surveyed Miss Lewis without appearing to 
do so, and silently awaited his employer’s pleasure. 

“ Mr. Brown,” said the head of the firm, “ this young lady 
is desirous of obtaining an engagement as stenographer. A friend, 
whom I very much wish to oblige, recommends her, and she has 
a satisfactory reference from Long, Mills, Lawton & Co.” 

He paused a moment, for some inexplicable reason, scarcely 
liking to own that he had departed from invariable custom in 
personally examining a candidate. 

“ I dictated a few paragraphs myself to Miss Lewis,” he said 
at last, in an offhand tone, “ and I find that she is really an ex- 
cellent stenographer.” 

Brown’s face expressed nothing, though it was quite possible 
that he saw a reason in the appearance of the young woman her- 
self for his employer’s unusual course of action. 

“ I think there is a vacancy upstairs,” Mr. Brown said. “ But 
I shall inquire.” 

He withdrew, perfectly aware that Mr. Weston had decided 
for himself to engage the young candidate, and marveling some- 
what at this sudden interest on the part of a man who was no- 
toriously indifferent to female charms. When he had gone, Mr. 
Weston, relaxing ever so slightly from the decorous gravity of 
his manner, observed, smiling: 

“I think. Miss Lewis, you may feel assured that you have 
been successful in securing the position of — stenographer.” . 

The twinkle in the steel-gray eyes regarding her, and the 
slight pause before the final word, proved to Blanche Lewis, who 
was singularly quick of perception, that Mr. Weston had, indeed, 
read at least a portion of that unlucky letter. To her own 
vexation she felt the hot blood mounting to her cheeks, while 
her tongue was powerless to frame a suitable reply. Mr. Weston, 
without appearing to notice her embarrassment, began to speak 
of the salary which his house usually paid to stenographers, and 
to Blanche Lewis the terms seemed surprisingly liberal. She said 
so frankly, and Mr. Weston declared that it was their custom 
to pay all employees liberally, expecting the best service in return. 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


51 


At that moment Mr. Brown reappeared, announcing that he had 
a vacancy upstairs in the junior partner’s office, and the matter 
was definitely settled. Miss Lewis was to report for duty on Monday 
following. When she got out in the street she mentally relieved 
her feelings by indulging in a very tirade against Mr. Weston. 

“ That odious man ! ” she said to herself. “ He was laughing 
at me and c putting me in my place/ I suppose, when he said that 
I was successful in securing the position of stenographer. Oh, 
how I hate him already ! I wish I could refuse the post. I shall 
never feel comfortable there — but, then, the salary.” 

This was an irresistible argument in favor of accepting the 
situation, and, after all, she hoped that she would not be thrown 
much in Mr. Weston’s way. She trusted that he would not tell the 
junior partner about the letter, or that that individual would be 
destitute of all sense of humor. This, indeed, proved to be the 
case. Mr. Miller was a perfectly harmless, insignificant per- 
sonage, a married man of twenty years’ standing, quite impervious 
to a jest, and tolerably unlikely to be in Mr. Weston’s confidence. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Weston, who had really a fine and generous 
nature, sat at his desk, thinking very kindly of his late visitor. 

“ Poor, little girl ! It’s hard luck for her to have to turn out 
and face the world, and it’s lucky she came to us. She might 
have fallen in with some unscrupulous rascals. I must ask Devlin 
all about her, and how she comes to be looking for a situation.” 

His mind reverted again and again during that afternoon 
to the fascinating subject. 

“ I couldn’t resist that chance shot,” he said. “ But, by 
George, if she didn’t look frightened ! She’s the last one to play 
such a game as she suggested to her friend, and lay herself out to 
entrap some old hard-pate or other.” 

When he prepared to leave the office that afternoon, he studied 
himself somewhat attentively in the office glass. He was not so 
very old, still on the right side of fifty. True, his hair and beard 
were gray, but his figure was alert and his eye bright. He could 
scarcely be called an old man, though, no doubt, to a girl of 
twenty-four he would seem old enough. 


52 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER . 


II. 

On Monday morning, according to agreement, Miss Lewis 
arrived and was taken in charge by Mr. Brown, who assigned her 
to a post of duty in the junior partner’s department. She was 
kept very busy, and had no more than a brief, passing glance 
occasionally of the head of the firm. But as time went on, Mr. 
AVeston assumed, in her eyes, almost abnormal proportions as to his 
importance, social and financial, the vast operations of his house, 
his extreme cleverness and high reputation for integrity in the 
mercantile world, and his generous, fair, and courteous treatment 
of those in his employment. It is very little wonder that, to the 
mind of a young creature shut in by circumstances to the nar- 
rowest possible sphere, something like a halo gathered around the 
head of Mr. Frederick Weston. 

The proprietor was, on his part, much more observant of her 
than it had been possible to suppose. He had inquired concerning 
her of his friend, Leonard Devlin, and had received a most en- 
thusiastic account. She had been thrown upon the world by the 
failure and death of her father, once an eminently successful 
merchant in one of the Eastern cities. She belonged to an un- 
exceptional family, and was the chief support of her widowed 
mother and several young children. 

“ She’s a magnificent girl,” Leonard Devlin had concluded, 
“ and I tell you what, sir, if she ever marries, some man will get 
a treasure. She’s a brick, and no mistake.” 

“And a very excellent stenographer,” Mr. Weston put in, 
drily. “ So, at least, Brown tells me.” 

“ It’s a thousand pities to see her shut up in an office,” Mr. 
Devlin cried. 

“ The fortunes of war,” said Mr. Weston, balancing the paper 
cutter upon his finger. “Up to-day and down to-morrow, and, 
after all, she might do worse.” 

“ True, true ! ” agreed Mr. Devlin. “ She’s very thankful 
to have the position. It’s been a godsend to them,” 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


53 


After his friend was gone, Frederick Weston sat drumming 
thoughtfully with his fingers upon the desk. Brown, the hard- 
headed, the unimpressionable, had been almost as enthusiastic 
about the girl, describing her as sensible, discreet, business- 
like, and a capital stenographer. And above and beyond all this 
praise of Blanche Lewis was Mr. Weston’s own shrewd estimate 
of her character, the glimpse he had had of her humor and spright- 
liness in the letter, her unusual beauty and fine appearance, and a 
certain piqued curiosity to find out whether she still pursued her 
search after a millionaire or had settled down to stenography 
and independence. 

By a curious coincidence he met Blanche Lewis that very after- 
noon, giving her his usual distant bow, considerably more formal 
and constrained than he would have bestowed on any of his mascu- 
line employees, or on those elderly damsels whom Mr. Brown kept 
employed in one department or another. He did not know that 
these occasional meetings had grown to be the chief interest in 
Blanche Lewis’ dull, prosaic life. So things wagged on for some time 
longer, though a certain, intangible progress was being made in 
the understanding of each other by the millionaire proprietor 
and the penniless stenographer, chiefly through the influence of 
outside people. 

One day there was a press of important work. Mr. Weston’s 
spectacled young man was detained at home by illness, and Mr. 
Brown at once suggested that Miss Lewis should take his place. 
Mr. Weston assented with outward carelessness, but with an in- 
ward tremor, and a disturbance in the cardiac region, to which Mr. 
Weston had been long a stranger. Miss Lewis answered the 
summons to the office with a nervous trepidation, which she suc- 
cessfully controlled, and worked away for an hour or two under 
Mr. Weston’s rapid dictation. She was not, however, at her best. 
She seemed far less quick than usual, and made a number of mis- 
takes, which would have been quite unaccountable to Mr. Brown. 

When she had finished and was taking up her book preparatory 
to departure, Mr. Weston leaned back in his chair and surveyed 
her in his usual deliberate manner. 


54 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER. 


“Miss Lewis,” he said, “I am afraid Brown has been overrating 
you. You are not nearly so good a stenographer as I thought.” 

The blood rushed impulsively to the girl’s face, and then left 
it pale, as a vision of losing her situation flashed into her mind. 

“ I am very sorry,” she said. “ I don’t feel quite myself to- 
day. I fancy it is the heat.” 

“No,” said Mr. Weston,, gravely. “It is, I think, that the 
position of stenographer does not suit you at all. I have, how- 
ever, something else in view, and, with your permission, I shall 
call upon you this evening and talk the matter over. Will you 
be at home ? ” 

“Yes,” said Miss Lewis, faintly, “and I shall be glad, of 
course, of your advice, if you find that I do not suit my present 
position.” 

“What is your address?” Mr. Weston inquired, carefully 
noting it down in his memorandum book, and dismissing the 
stenographer with his customary gravity. 

He presented himself at the Lewis’ dwelling shortly after 
eight, announcing that he had a business appointment at the 
Palmer House with a man from New York precisely at nine. 
After the interchange of a few commonplaces, the visitor said : 

“ I have been hearing a great deal about you from my friend, 
Devlin, and my manager, Mr. Brown, is most eulogistic as to the 
character of your work, but I am not at all satisfied that you are 
suited to the position of stenographer.” 

Blanche Lewis did not very well know what to answer to this, 
and merely said: 

“ I am very sorry.” 

“ Well, to be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lewis, I once read 
a certain letter which you addressed to a confidential friend. I 
began to read it inadvertently and continued to the end. In it 
you expressed your views with regard to life, jestingly, of course. 
But I think your views were correct.” 

He paused, as if waiting for some word, and there was, once 
more the twinkle in the gray eyes, but Blanche Lewis, fairly over- 
come with confusion, made no attempt at a reply. 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


55 


“ Yes ; you were quite right/' Mr. Weston went on. “ Marriage, 
generally speaking, is the safest career for a woman, and in this 
country a wealthy marriage is always within the possibilities to 
one who has, you must pardon the personality, so many attrac- 
tions as yourself. One thing I wanted to ask you this evening — 
are you still desirous of being the wife of a millionaire ? " 

“ Sir," cried Blanche Lewis, this jesting is very much mis- 
placed in our relative positions, and I beg of you to understand 
that I will submit to no impertinence." 

Mr. Weston nodded his head approvingly. Of course, she was 
quite right, and how extremely becoming to her was the momen- 
tary flash of anger. 

“ You are mistaken," he said, gravely. “ I mean no imperti- 
nence whatever. I am simply putting matters on a business foot- 
ing. I have, as I said, an appointment, and can spare just twenty 
minutes more." 

He glanced at his watch as he spoke, replacing it in his pocket. 

“ Now, to put the matter in a nutshell, if you are still dis- 
posed to marry a millionaire, I am at your service. I am old com- 
pared to you. Millionaires usually are, especially if they have 
made the money themselves. It is a fatal defect in their com- 
position. But as you explained to your friend, you are about 
tired of poverty and of a struggle which is, in fact, a poor business 
for any woman. I am a bit tired of mere money-getting, which 
has occupied me for so long, and I fancied we might hit it off to- 
gether. What do you think ?" 

He laughed in an embarrassed fashion, looking at her steadily 
through those steel-gray eyes which he could make as expression- 
less as he chose, and went on hurriedly, as if to cover the ob- 
stinate silence in which Blanche Lewis persisted. 

“I quite agree with you that you would cut a better figure 
than the wife of any millionaire I know, and, as you observed, 
what the millionaire is like matters little. Only let me add if he 
be a decent sort of fellow, who will treat you well, and, as ad- 
ditional security, a fairly good Catholic, with a certain amount of 
conscience." 


56 


A MISDIRECTED LETTER. 


Blanche Lewis still sat bewildered. She could not believe her 
ears that this great, good fortune had really come to pass, and that 
this commercial magnate, whom she had learned so to admire, was 
actually offering her his hand. The whimsical affectation of 
drollery and the continued allusions to her letter did not entirely 
(conceal his real earnestness. Seeing, however, that the girl did 
Inot respond, Mr. Weston rose. 

“ Time’s up ! ” he said, “ but I beg that you will think over 
what I have said, and make up your mind if I would fill the bill 
as a millionaire bridegroom. By the way, I am only a bachelor — 
and I think you put it that a widower was preferred. But, per- 
haps, you will not allow that trifling disadvantage to tell against 
me.” 

He extended his hand in farewell. Blanche gave him hers. 
He held it an instant, saying somewhat wistfully : 

“ Ah, Blanche, Blanche, time was when, with all your beauty 
and all your charms, I would only have taken you on condition 
of love for love, but now I confess that I will be thankful to have 
you on any terms. May I come to-morrow for my answer ? ” 

Blanche Lewis answered, as it were, mechanically : “ Yes ; that 
will be better. I want a little time to think. It is so sudden ! 33 

He went away and Blanche Lewis did her thinking with a 
vengeance. Next morning a note was received by Mr. Brown at 
the establishment announcing Miss Lewis’ resignation from the 
post of stenographer. That afternoon she took a walk with Mr. 
Weston in the direction of the lake, from which the millionaire 
went home happier than he had ever expected to be. Miss Lewis’ 
friend Alice received a second letter, which read as follows : 

“My Dearest Alice: I am the luckiest of sinners. You 
are getting love in a cottage, I am going to have it in a palace. 
I dreamed of a millionaire and thought that, even if he were ugly, 
old, and crabbed, I would have married him to escape poverty. 
I know now that I could never have done such a thing. But I 
have done better. I have fallen in love with a millionaire whom 
I prefer to any other person in the world. He is simply an ideal 
man — honorable, high-minded, generous, a good Catholic, and so 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


57 


wonderfully clever, a merchant prince and a prince among mer- 
chants. Best of all, he is very much in love with me. At first 
he put romance and all that sort of thing out of the question, 
but when he found that I really cared for him, during our walk 
by the lake, he confessed that he had fallen in love with me on 
first reading that misdirected letter. We are to be married in a 
month. Mother is delighted. It is such a good thing for her, 
poor soul, and for us all.” 

Alice laughed and cried a little over her friend’s good luck 
and at the fact of mercenary Blanche suddenly turning senti- 
mental. Leonard Devlin, too, on hearing the news, rushed in to 
his wife, waving Mr. Weston’s letter in the air. 

“ Hurrah ! ” he cried. “ Weston’s going to marry Blanche 
Lewis. He knows a thing or two. He’s a shrewd fellow, but, by 
George, my dear, this is the best deal he ever made.” 

“ And to think,” as Blanche Lewis put it, “ that it all came 
about through a misdirected letter.” 


















THE RED SORCERESS. 


BY ANNA T. SADLIER. 


She lived — that negress — in a wood to which local tradition 
gave some very hard names. It stood upon the shore of a lake which 
was gloomy and isolated, shut in by hills. Her dwelling was a 
large and capacious hut, and around its door grew great clusters of 
flowers, scarlet always — geraniums, or poppies, or gladioluses — 
and over the porch hung the red clusters of the trumpet-vine. It 
was this peculiarity which earned for her the title of the Red 
Sorceress, given by the people about, who stood much in awe of her. 

Of her life in that gloomy solitude little need be set down here, 
but much may be learned from the inhabitants of that particular 
section of the Carolinas, to whom for years she was a mystery and 
a source of dread. Rumor was ever busy with her doings, and the 
most credible informants declared that she changed her form with 
the changes of the moon, and that those who saw her picking herbs 
beneath its light scarcely saw her twice the same. 

It was in the late autumn that news spread through the village 
that little Randolph Morton was missing. The nurse who had him 
out with her could give no clear account of the matter. The father 
was absent, and the distracted mother ran from house to house, 
calling upon the neighbors to form search parties and seek for her 
darling. Search was, indeed, made in every direction, but without 
avail. Toward dusk a whisper began to go round: “The Red 
Sorceress must have taken the boy ! ” 

Then the nurse, who was much frightened, having lost the child 
through pure carelessness, leaving him alone while she gossiped 
with a crony, took up the cry : 


59 


60 


THE RED SORCERESS . 


“ The negress must have bewitched little Randolph, and carried 
him off by magic. I could not have lost him in any other 
way.” 

That was enough. The bravest men of the village organized 
themselves into a band. They would seek out that accursed sorcer- 
ess and if any proof could be found that she had meddled with the 
child her cabin would be burned over her head and she driven from 
the country. It was a chill evening, with red gleams in the sky, 
angrily streaking the gray. The wind moaned in the forest and 
rattled the dry leaves. Some of the strongest men felt their nerves 
shaken, so uncanny and witch-like was the sound. 

The party advanced till they were within sight of the cottage. 
Only the skeleton of the trumpet-vine waved drearily in the blast. 
The cabin was in darkness, save for one tiny light, which glowed 
out through the narrow window, while pine-trees, as grim sentinels, 
stood before the door. The woman’s voice was heard crooning a 
low and monotonous song, which chilled the hearts of those who 
came and caused them to stop abruptly. It was some moments 
before the stoutest-hearted advanced and peered in at the window. 
He gave a startled cry, and the others pressed around. Till that 
moment few among them had really believed that the woman had 
stolen the child, or, at least, that she would keep it in the cabin. 
The whisper went about : “ The child is inside ! ” 

There was a pause, during which tierce indignation swelled up 
in every breast, for the men were mostly fathers of families and 
had children of their own. They rushed at the cabin door, beating 
fiercely upon it with their fists. At first there was dead silence 
within ; then, at last, a slow step was heard advancing to the door, 
and a head crowned by a flaming red turban appeared. The face 
that head-dress surmounted was ebony black, and of hideous ugli- 
ness, causing all who beheld it to shrink back an instant. This was 
momentary, however, and the forward rush was accompanied by 
cries of : 

“ Give up the child, you black devil ! 99 

“ Dip her in the stream ! 99 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


61 


“ Burn her at the stake ! ” 

The door was pushed wide open, and the woman stood and 
trembled like the aspen that just without her threshold quivered 
at the breath of coming storms. It was immediately noted that 
there was blood upon the negress’ arm and clothing. The blood of 
the child ! It was, then, true — that horrifying tale of the children 
she killed for magic rites. The commotion grew wilder and wilder, 
the strong and terrible race prejudice was mingled with natural 
and honest indignation. The woman was black; therefore she 
was capable of any crime. It was some time before her voice could 
make itself heard. 

“ Gentlemen, pity ! ” she cried. “ The child am here alive, 
and the little honey, he ain’t much hurt.” 

Cries of rage drowned her words. 

“ She confesses ! She has him here and she dares to tell us he 
is but little hurt ! ” cried several voices. Two or three men burst 
across the threshold and to the rude bed upon which the child lay, 
asleep or unconscious. Upon him, too, was blood, and at that sight 
the woman was seized, bound with thongs, and dragged rudely 
forth. Her piteous cries were re-echoed in the lonely depths of 
the wood where so long she had made her home, and it scared the 
owl from its cover, so that he went hooting forth. The little 
figure of the child was tenderly lifted and borne out into the night. 

The hut was left cold and deserted, a stream of moonlight fall- 
ing over the floor and displaying the bunches of herbs, symbol of 
that fatal trade in which the inmate of the hut had passed so many 
years. While two stern-faced men held the hapless woman, whom 
they were hurrying relentlessly toward the jail, the others piled 
dry logs about the cabin and set them ablaze. The negress, 
seeing this, uttered a piercing shriek, and struggled with her cap- 
tors, while the flames leaped up eerily, crackling and blazing in the 
green shadow of the pines. 

The sorceress could, therefore, scarce believe her senses when 
she awoke from what seemed to her a long and dreamless sleep, in 
a comfortable bed in a pleasant room, to find a sweet-faced woman 


62 


THE RED SORCERESS. 


bending over her. She thought she must be dreaming still, 
and feared to touch the cooling draught which was at once held to 
her lips, while a kindly arm supported her. She tried to speak, 
but her tongue seemed parched and swollen. At last she got out 
^ the words : 

j “ Good lady, is Hannah dreamin’ ? ” 

There was a tremor in her voice, and she trembled as she spoke. 

“No, you are not dreaming,” said the lady; “you are with 
friends.” 

Suddenly, with a wild, frightened cry, the old woman covered 
her face with her hands. She had just remembered the angry 
crowd surrounding her, the moonlight scattering the darkness with 
its silvery arrows, and the crackling flames leaping up to burn her 
home. This was the cruelest thought, and the tears forced them- 
selves from her eyes and down her cheeks. 

“ I ain’t got no friends among the white folks,” she said, in a 
scared tone, adding, in a broken voice, “ I don’t know where I be, 
Missa; I don’t live nowhere now. Hannah’s cabin, they done 
burned it.” 

The infinite sadness of her tone touched the listener deeply. 

“ You shall have a home here,” she said. 

“Here?” repeated the other, dazed. Then she shook her 
head. 

“ They done burned it,” she repeated, mournfully. 

“ Oh, they treated you shamefully,” cried the lady, angrily, 
“ without waiting, without knowing.” 

The eyes of the negress were turned upon the white woman in 
surprise. She had been accustomed to ill-treatment, and the 
events of that memorable evening had been but the crowning of 
her miserable life. 

“ You saved my child ! ” cried the lady, in a sudden burst of 
gratitude, seizing the black, shriveled hand in both her own. 
“ He told me in his baby way that the good, black woman saved 
him from an awful thing which jumped upon him from a tree.” 

“The wildcat done jumped on him,” assented the negress. 


ANNA T. 8 ADLIB R. 


63 


“ It tore him and it tore me. It had powerful sharp claws, but I 
got the boy inside the cabin afore he was hurt much.” 

Then she covered her face at the thought of the hut which 
existed no longer, and the tears fell fast again upon the coverlet. 

“ They done burned it,” she wailed, in an agony of sorrow. 

The mother was weeping, too. The old woman seemed to feel 
no other wound, though she had several scratches from the wild- 
cat, carefully dressed by the surgeon, and many bruises and cuts, 
where she had been bound and dragged along. 

“ I lived there ’most always,” she said, turning to the lady, as if 
in explanation, when her grief had exhausted itself. “ It was in 
the slave time. I got away, and the dogs they didn’t find me. I 
was young, and I jest stayed there. But now they done burned 
it, an’ I don’t know where to go.” 

Her voice was very weak, and there was a trembling in her 
frame, and her face had a strange, ashen color. 

“ I couldn’t grapple much with the wildcat,” she said, smiling 
faintly; “it had powerful claws, an’ I ain’t overstrong, Missa, 
an’ I’m ole, too, ’most as ole as the oak near my door.” 

Her face worked again. 

“ I ain’t got no door now,” she said, plaintively. 

“ They shall build you another cabin, if you don’t want to stay 
here,” the lady promised. 

The woman brightened a little, but the gleam did not hide the 
ashen pallor. It was growing and spreading, and suddenly the 
white woman beside her knew there would be no need for building 
that cabin. Her heart was full of sorrow and indignation for the 
poor creature. She knew that it was part of that race hatred 
which condemns unheard one whose face is black. 

“ The boy, he done come to me,” said the negress, with a smile. 
“ He warn’t afraid of me, nohow.” 

The change was becoming more marked, the eyes wandered, 
the speech grew indistinct, and the murmurs that came of the 
forest and the cabin were incoherent. In alarm, the mother of 
the rescued child sent off for priest and doctor, sitting down to 


64 


THE RED SORCERESS. 


wait their coming beside that death-bed. From the parched and 
shrunken lips, of an awful pallor now, came clear and distinct the 
words : 

“ The good Lord, He knows I did no evil, and they done 
burned my house. I ain’t got none now. I don’t live nowheres.” 

The breathing was becoming very faint. The white woman 
bent over her, murmuring prayers which the lips seemed striving 
to repeat. Then she whispered softly to her : 

“ Hannah’s going home now.” 

The dark face broke into a smile which restored it almost to 
youth, and the failing voice added ; 

“ Yes, honey, I’se goin’ home.” 

The priest, who had given her communion that morning, 
arrived barely in time to give the final absolution, and the doctor 
to pronounce her dead. She was buried with a monument of 
gratitude from the mother of the child, and of remorse from the 
people of the village. It bore an inscription relating the incident 
and her sad fate. But ever after that pile of ashes in the forest 
near the great oak and the aspen tree was pointed at with a super- 
stitious dread that was half reverence, and clusters of red flowers, 
running wild, still marked the spot where had lived the Red 
Sorceress. 


THE STRANGE STORY OF 
WALTER PEARTREE. 

BY ANNA T. SADLIER. 

Fragments of the tale I have many times heard from those 
who remember when Manhattan was under the rule of the Dutch, 
and did not owe allegiance to the King’s majesty. But in search- 
ing among some old documents relating to the Schuyler family, I 
found the detailed narrative of the events of that memorable 
Christmas eve, set down in the delicate calligraphy of Mistress 
Catalyna Schuyler herself. The manuscript is somewhat worn 
and faded, so that divers words and phrases can be but con- 
jectured. The incidents border on the marvelous, and were 
plainly so regarded by our ancestors, until fuller light was 
thrown upon them in the sequel. Perchance, our forefathers were 
more credulous than we, though, in truth, I do not incline to over- 
skepticism. I will endeavor to transcribe, as faithfully as possible, 
that quaint document, recording those happenings which might 
have wrecked the happiness of a maid, had not the providence of 
God thrown light upon a mystery. 

The events here set down took place in the year of Our Lord, 
1676, just when the town of New Amsterdam, even to its most 
sober citizens, after the manner of the Dutch, was agog over the 
celebration of Christmas, and all the little maids and urchins 
went about the streets, keeping watch with wide-open eyes for 
the coming of St. Nicholas. Christmas, that year, set in very 
cold and stormy, with frosts so severe and roads so encumbered 
with snow, as almost to hinder traffic. The posts, in truth, have 
been conveyed from Albany on snow-shoes, and a hundred sleighs 
have crossed the ice from Staten Island with provisions, 

65 


66 THE STRANGE STORY OF WALTER PEARTREE . 

One Walter Peartree, concerning whom this weird tale is told, 
abode in a quaint stone house which has stood on Piewoman 
Street,* below the Great Highway, f since the beginning of these 
colonies. He lived quite alone, and though, in the ordinary, he 
was esteemed a harmless man, there were not wanting malicious 
tongues to ascribe to him the possession of magical powers, and to 
hint, moreover, that he received mysterious visitors, booted and 
spurred, as for hard-riding, after honest folk were asleep. 

Be this as it may, the master of the stone dwelling was a 
silent and unsocial man, keeping his face so that few had ever 
seen it, muffled in the huge cloak which covered his spare frame, 
whenever he walked abroad. I will confess that he has ever had a 
wondrous fascination for my mind. Often have I passed and 
repassed his abode, hoping for some marvel to display itself, or 
striving to catch a glimpse of this mysterious personage, who 
had about him so shrewd a touch of romance. In this last 
attempt have I been many times successful, perceiving him many 
times at the window. Each time the foolish fancy seized me, 
setting my heart beating high with excitement, that he watched 
me with intentness. 

Again, I have passed him by in the street and have fancied 
that his eyes gleamed at me, oddly, from the fold of his cloak. 
Never have I been able to determine with exactness the real aspect 
of his face, though frequently I have heard men, in my father’s 
house, describe his countenance as of ashen white, framed with 
sparse, silver locks. 

And now to my story : 

It was Christmas eve, and the bell from the old Dutch church 
tolled to herald the coming of the midnight and remind the 
devoutly-minded of the sacred birth of Christ the Redeemer. 
Horns likewise sounded, sleigh-bells tinkled merrily, for the snow 
lay on the ground, and greetings were exchanged among the 
passers-by upon the streets. I, Catalyna Schuyler, was on my 

* This street changed its appellation to Nassau, after the accession 
of William of Orange. — E d. MS. 
t Broadway. 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


67 


homeward way, with a company of damsels and gallants, from 
a dancing party, given at the Tea Rooms, near Cuyler’s Sugar 
House, by Mistress Van Dam. We were all in merry mood, 
jesting and pelting each other with the snow and crying out 
“ Merry Christmas.” My eyes fairly danced with mirthfulness, 
my laugh rang the most gleefully, and my cheeks glowed with the 
nip of the frost. 

Of a sudden, we found ourselves before the dwelling of Master 
Peartree. A silence fell upon the group, for the place was of 
uncanny repute after nightfall. How, as every one knows, in the 
dark months of the year, each seventh householder is compelled 
by law, to put forth a lanthorn on a pole over his door. This 
was an ordinance which Walter Peartree had ever evaded, suffer- 
ing fines and being threatened by the Schout* with imprisonment. 
I remembered stealing to my room and crying bitter tears, because 
I overheard ipy father say that Master Peartree .was to be put in 
jail for refusing to light his premises, and stood in danger of 
banishment from the Colonies. 

Most prodigious, then, was our amazement to note that the 
dwelling was alight from top to bottom. I was seized with a very 
ague of fear, and my companions of the female sex were grievously 
perturbed. The gentlemen made show of great bravery, handling 
their swords and cocking their hats, but I make no doubt, they 
were inwardly quaking with fear. We stood still and looked up 
the street and down the street again to where the East River lay 
black between us and the Breuklyn shore. We gazed upward at 
the dark-blue heavens, sprinkled with the stars of the Christmas 
tide, and into one another’s faces, but all was of no avail to 
explain the phenomenon. 

At last, Abel Bloodgood, who chanced to be at my side, spoke 
out his mind : 

“ Master Peartree has been forcibly ejected from his dwelling 
or there has been murder done.” 

At this I grew pale and a more grievots alarm filled my heart. 


* Magistrate. 


68 


THE STRANGE STORY OF WALTER PEARTREE. 


for in some strange fashion the uncanny owner of that edifice 
had grown dear to me! 

“ Lads ! ” cried Will Bogardus, a lusty and stalwart youth, 
“let us bestow the ladies in safety and return to discover what 
this marvel may signify.” 

“Nay,” objected I, moved strongly by this new terror; “shut 
us not out, I pray you, from this adventure. ’Tis but a Christmas 
mummery whereby a dwelling of sober aspect doth masquerade 
as a house of revelry. Suffer us to proceed with you in your 
quest.” 

This suggestion was well received, even by the most timorous 
of my companions, and together we all drew nigh to the foot of the 
stoop. My heart beat high, my cheek flushed ; I was thrilling with 
the sense of mystery and adventure, and with the thought that I 
should now behold Master Peartree, face to face, in his weird 
domicile. If, indeed, he were alive and unhurt as I prayed God. 
Will Bogardus led the way to the door, followed closely by the 
other gallants, and began a furious knocking with the silver-plated 
knocker. We had scant hope of gaining admittance, yet, at the 
summons the door flew open and within stood revealed, not the 
shabby and aged figure we had expected, but a personage richly 
clad and of much distinction in his bearing. The gentlemen of 
our company bowed low, and each lady entering swept a formal 
courtesy, to which this mysterious apparition responded by a deep 
obeisance. I came last, lingering strangely and with downcast 
eyes. To my surprise, the stranger whispered, as I passed him by : 

“ Welcome, fair mistress, to this poor abode ! 99 

Then he spoke aloud to all the company. 

“ I give you the season’s joy, beauteous ladies and brave gentle- 
men of New Amsterdam. I pray you enter yon wainscoted apart- 
ment, where the musicians await the dancers.” 

There was a visible hesitation on the part of every one. But 
the blood of youth is warm, and even the frosts of that Christmas 
night had no power to chill its glow. A dance is ever a magic 
word in the ears of youth, and so we were fain to enter. Lights 
abounded. One end of the room was fairly aglow with sconces 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


69 


upon the walls or tapers in curiously wrought candlesticks upon 
a chimneypiece. The wall's were wainscoted, with tapestries reach- 
ing upward thence to the frieze. Musicians were in waiting; not 
those of the town, but men in strange garb, playing upon foreign 
instruments and speaking, betimes, in uncouth jargon. 

Observing our entertainer in the glow of the lights, I did per- 
ceive him to be of comely countenance, with eyes that were piercing 
dark and full of merriment; a brown, curling wig, with a figure 
straight and tall. His costume was rich, betokening wealth and 
modishness in its wearer, but suggesting something of another 
century, or of having come, peradventure, beyond seas. So that as 
I looked I grew grievously confused, as one walking in a dream. 
There were no silvery locks, nor ashen cheeks, nor sour looks. 
Walter Peartree, as he might have been in lusty youth. Or was 
it, in truth, he? 

I watched him moving courteously among his guests, neglect- 
ing none, lingering now here, now there among my fair com- 
panions, which did curiously disquiet me. But his eyes were often 
upon me, tender and deep, with such expression in them, which 
I could not read. At length he made inquiry as to what dance 
might be favored by the assembly, and spoke to the musicians, 
who therewith began a tune which accorded well with the “ Opera 
Reel,” then much affected by the modish of our town. While the 
other couples took their places, our host advanced toward me 
with a low obeisance, begging my hand for the dance. His look, 
half pleading, half mirthful, strangely thrilled me, and taking 
my hand he led me to join the dancers. The first couple led off 
down the room; my partner seized my hands and our feet flew 
over the polished floor, so that I presently forgot everything, save 
that I was dancing with the handsomest gentleman it had ever 
been my fortune to see. And it appeared to me that he was in 
some curious way well known and beloved. 

When the dance was over, Walter Peartree led me to a retired 
corner of the room, offering me a seat, with the low bow affected 
by people of the highest fashion. Then he stood, intently regard- 
ing me. 


70 


THE STRANGE STORY OF WALTER PE ART REE. 


“ And so, sweet mistress,” he began, “ you have come at length 
to this dwelling which hath long waited for the light of those 
lovely eyes to illumine it.” 

I was mightily amazed by this speech, and could hut look down- 
ward, while this strange personage continued: 

“ That cheek, where the lily and carnation blend, that brow 
of ivory, that hair, Cupid’s veritable bow-strings, have set my 
heart on fire, Catalyna, cruel Catalyna.” 

There was mingled mirth and daring in this employment of 
my name, and the language of flattery was but little used by the 
gentlemen of New Amsterdam, who had not learned to win a 
woman’s ear by courtly phrases. Yet could I not rebuke him as 
was fitting, for the beating of my heart. When I strove, indeed, 
to chide, he stopped me forthwith, crying: 

"Nay, you are too rose-beautiful to be so barbarously cruel, 
and on this night of all the nights. The time is short and I 
prithee hear my love tale, for I do confess that it is to that end 
alone I have brought you hither.” 

“ Brought me hither,” I cried in amaze, “ and in what man- 
ner ? ” 

“ By that trait of your sweet sex which seeks ever to penetrate 
the unknown. Some uncurtained windows, a handful of tapers, 
and the deed is done ! ” 

He laughed in a careless fashion, which caused me to laugh 
likewise, though I was fain, indeed, to be wroth and to frown 
upon this daring gallant. 

" Nay, frown not, lovely Catalyna,” cried he, “ forgive my 
discourtesy, but ceremony is but frost upon the pane when 
breathed upon by the flame of true love.” 

“ But, sir,” I cried, “ I pray you to inform me by what name 
you are called ? ” 

" Men call me Walter Peartree,” he made answer, lightly, “ but 
what have names to do with love ? Call me what you will, only be 
assured that my heart is yours, that I do most truly love you, and 
do hope one day to wed you.” 

" Wed me ! ” I cried, “ why, sir, you do but jest ! ” For to my 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


71 


austere upbringing this bold declaration of love from one but 
newly met appeared most startling. 

“ Nay, ’twould be but a sorry jest, sweet lady,” this singular 
personage answered, with earnestness, “ and still sorer to me 
should you deny my suit.” 

Surely there was magic in it, but as I raised my eyes to his 
face, I felt assured of this, that I could love none other and must 
of necessity marry this bold wooer, or die unwed. He laughed as 
he met my eyes, for his own were full, shrewd, and searching. 

“ It needs not words,” he cried, “ when eyes are eloquent, and 
the blush on a fair maiden’s cheek is more convincing than argu- 
ment. But it is of moment that you learn how truly I have loved 
you, and how your glances, few and stolen, have haunted my soli- 
tude, till, at last, I have devised this merry-making to bring you 
to my dwelling, that you might know the very truth.” 

I listened in silence, scarce knowing how I should make answer 
to this whimsical lover. 

“ Confess, fairest maiden,” he went on, gaily, “ that your feet 
have often strayed to this quarter of the town. Was it, I wonder, 
the magnet of my love which drew you, or was it but the curiosity 
of your sex which set your woman’s wits to work ? ” 

“ I know not ! ” answered I, blushing that he had discovered 
my foolish infatuation for his house. “But you were not here, 
since I have never seen aught save an aged man muffled in a cloak.” 

“ Were you so very certain he was aged ? ” laughed he, merrily. 

“ Was it, in truth, you ? ” I cried out, f orgetting my discretion. 

“ Tush, sweetheart, let me play out my game ! ” he answered ; 
“ what haste to know ! Suffice it that I love you, that I am your 
lover sent you by St. Nicholas, and that I do but crave a hearing.” 

Needs not to set down here those arguments by which he over- 
came all my resolve. I was but a simple maiden and he a courtly 
gallant, and I have ever held that there was in it all some of those 
enchantments wh^ph the vulgar hold to have power on festal 
nights. Howsoever it might be, I had presently given my promise 
that no living man should put a ring upon my finger, nor call me 
wife or sweetheart until he should claim me. And when I had 


72 THE STRANGE STORY OF WALTER PEARTREE. 

thus pledged my faith, Master Peartree drew forth from his satin 
doublet a tiny casket, whence he produced a ring, so set with gems 
of price that it fairly dazzled my sight. Having placed this upon 
my finger, he moved with me into the center of the room, raising 
his voice and courteously bidding his guests to the supper, which 
lay spread in the blue-room on the other side of the hallway. He 
offered me his hand, and led the way to a sumptuous banquet, 
which lay spread upon the hoard, abounding in all manner of 
Christmas cheer, with scarlet-berried holly, and the white berries 
and dull green of the mistletoe. Viands, with outlandish names,, 
but withal savory to the taste, were there in profusion ; sweetmeats, 
rich and cloying to our simple palates; Christmas geese and 
turkeys, spiced hams and capons, and in their midst a peacock, 
bearing in its beak a scroll of merry Christmas. A boar’s head, 
gaily bedecked with greenery, crowned the top of the board. 

Rare and costly wines were served, and a steaming bowl of 
mead stood before our host. This bowl was in form like a dragon’s 
head, and bore upon it strange characters, the meaning of which 
Master Peartree thus interpreted : 

“ Drink from me to beauty, joy, and pleasantness ! ” Our 
host conversed with all about him, bandying gay jests, but keep- 
ing ever a smile for me, the most silent of the company. When 
the repast was near its ending, he arose, crying : 

“ Gentlemen, I give you a toast, which all must drink ! ” 

Those addressed were upon their feet in an instant, the light 
catching the bright-hued canary wine in their glasses and chang- 
ing it to molten gold. Hone, methought, among all these gallants 
was so graceful of motion, so courtly of demeanor, as Walter 
Peartree. 

“ To my betrothed ! ” he exclaimed, “ who, amid many fair 
ladies, is, in my mind, the fairest in all these Colonies of Hew 
Hetherlands ! ” * 

He raised his glance, and after a moment of suspense added, 
“ To Mistress Catalyna Schuyler.” 

He drained the glass, and the other gentlemen did likewise, 
though with ominous gravity, and there was a frown upon the 


ANNA T. SADL1ER. 


n 


countenance of honest Will Bogardus, who had long sought my 
favor, but could in no wise compare with this other. Many and 
curious glances, some of them, I opine, half envious, were cast 
upon me by the damsels present. But I cared not, so fully had the 
spell of that courtly personage wrought upon me, and so proud 
was I of this handsome and gallant lover. Scarce did I pause to 
ask myself whether, indeed, he were spirit or mortal. 

When we returned to the wainscoted chamber I had no doubt 
been assailed by a hundred curious questions, had not our singular 
host claimed me for every dance. They followed each other in 
quick succession : “ The Favorite of Fancy/’ “ The Battle of 
Culloden,” “ La Belle Katherine,” “ Apollo turned Shepherd.” 
I followed their intricate mazes joyously with my mysterious lover. 

At last some one cried out that there was a hint of dawn in 
the sky and that we must even return home. Master Peartree’s 
eyes were fixed upon my countenance in one long look. He held 
my hand, bowing low, and, in the twinkling of an eye, there was 
darkness. The lights had vanished, and with them the musicians, 
and even our host himself. Only there came to me a voice, as it 
were from afar : 

“ Remember, Catalyna, none may woo or wed the betrothed of 
Walter Peartree ! ” 

Will Bogardus rushed to the front entrance, seized a lanthorn 
from the hand of a sleepy watchman, and returned to discover 
what it all might mean. Tapers and chimney piece, musicians 
and all were gone. The room, a plain and meager one, square and 
of small proportions, contained but ourselves. 

“’Tis a device of the evil one!” cried many. “We have 
sinned in forgetting the sacred eve.” The company, with one 
accord, looked askance at me, and though I felt a chilliness of 
doubt creep over me, I bent my head and pledged my faith anew 
to Walter Peartree. 

* * * * * 

The manuscript there ended abruptly, with a trace as of tears 
upon the page. The beauteous Catalyna, as I apprehend from 
family chronicles, entered upon a season of much gloom, shunned 


74 THE STRANGE STORY OF WALTER PEARTREE. 

by the gallants, to whom, in truth, she gave the cold shoulder, and 
avoided by the maids, as having incurred a malison by betrothal 
with a phantom. Her heart, too, was sore with longing for that 
lover who, in spirit or in the flesh, had won her troth. 

Most curious of all, Walter Peartree was seen, as of old, in the 
streets of the city, sour and crabbed, with white locks and ashen 
face, and once, when Catalyna, who hung upon his footsteps, would 
have addressed him, he turned upon her a look of menace and 
fled. This circumstance was fully vouched for by divers observers. 
I would have had to end my tale here, holding the occurrence to be 
one of those manifestations of the marvelous, which even in this 
enlightened year, 1720, occasionally confound the overskeptical. 

But the sequel to the tale was likewise found among the 
Schuyler chronicles, together with a time-worn extract from the 
Weekly Hews Letter, wherein was set forth among the Christmas 
festivities of a certain year of grace, the wedding of Mistress 
Catalyna Schuyler to a gentleman of rank and fortune from over 
seas, who had sometime made his abode in Hew Amsterdam, under 
the familiar style and title of Master Peartree. Details were not 
wanting of the exceeding great splendor which marked the nuptial 
ceremonies, and of the part which good St. Hicholas took therein. 
For, in truth, it was a fanciful device of the bridegroom that the 
lovely lady was a gift to him from the patron of Christmastide. 

Hints were not wanting as to the highly romantic circum- 
stances under which the youthful pair had plighted their troth, 
and an explanation was attempted of the mysteries which had 
rendered memorable a previous Christmas eve. The jugglery of 
the wainscoted room was plainly disclosed, and now that conceal- 
ment was at an end, it was shown forth that these devices, to- 
gether with the ungainly disguise under which a handsome and 
courtly gentleman had dwelt, were connected with a certain species 
of trading affected by many men of good repute in the Colonies, 
and were, moreover, closely allied with political convictions. So 
was it made manifest that the strange story of Walter Peartree 
was not, in truth, so very strange after all. 


THE SILVER AX. 


BY ANNA T. SADLIER. 

Mary took the letter, and looked at it with close and critical 
attention. It was now nearly three months since she had begun 
to receive these curious missives. At first there had been an in- 
terval of a week or ten days between the receipt of each, now they 
came daily. Their tone, at first denoting the passing interest of 
a stranger, had warmed into lover-like devotion. There was no 
signature, no visible sign or token which might betray whence 
they came, save a silver ax on an azure ground. It was per- 
plexing; it was more, it was vexatious — and in the beginning 
Mary Martin was disposed to be angry at what she deemed the 
impertinent obtrusiveness of the unknown. Gradually, with a 
girl’s natural love of mystery, she grew interested. The letters 
were so respectful, so full of gentle deference, that she could not 
be wroth with the writer, though he called her Mary, and made 
love to her on paper, without revealing his identity. Indeed, her 
interest gave place, after a time, to a somewhat warmer feeling, 
as she made her way to the summer house to find out what “ that 
foolish fellow ” had written now. 

They never arrived by the post, and, indeed, a daily corre- 
spondence would in that initial year of the nineteenth century 
have been impossible, as well as a considerable expense. More- 
over, the writer would have run an almost certain chance of de- 
tection. As it was, Mary kept the letters to herself, and no eyes 
but her own ever read a line of them. She was an only child. 
While she was still an infant her mother died, and her father 
was very much engrossed with his own affairs. It would be im- 
possible, of course, to give the entire correspondence in the short 

75 


76 


THE SILVER AX. 


space of a story, though it would be interesting as illustrating 
the gradual growth of the tender passion in a man of poetic 
feeling and thoughtful mind. A few extracts chosen at random 
may be of interest before hastening on to the sequel of this 
curious narrative: 

Letter dated June 15, and signed with the Silver Ax. 

“ Did you ever, on a bright October day, when autumn had 
superseded summer, feel it a delight to be alive, to look on the 
beautiful things of nature, and to say that the Creator is good? 
So have I felt in beholding you pass, your face so fair, your eyes 
blue as the corn-flower, sweet and serious, your firm and upright 
gait. 

“ Did you ever, on a spring day, catch its full beauty, so rare, 
so fleeting, a breath of joy and of new life in every breeze, or the 
green hue, unequaled for purity and delicacy, and have felt as 
might have felt those who walked by the river of life, in the ter- 
restrial paradise? With such keen delight, Mary, do I behold 
your sweet youth, the charm of a day, rare, evanescent, informed 
by the lovely soul behind the material charms. 

“ Did you ever feel the full repose and majesty of summer, 
Nature in its prime bestowing abundantly all goodly things upon 
mankind ? So do I look forward toward the summer into which 
the spring of your youth will merge, bestowing sweetness on all 
around. I ask myself who will be so blessed as to enjoy that sum- 
, mer, gathering up its treasures into careful hoards for the winter 
of life. Mary, I envy him who will pass that winter with you, 
the sunshine of your presence dispelling its dreariness, your smile 
thawing the very icicles, and your beauty enhanced by the hoar- 
frost of time. 

“ All seasons speak of you, Mary. You are my calendar. All 
beauteous things recall your image. The flowers at my feet, here- 
tofore unnoted, gain a significance, a poetry, for I seek there a 
resemblance, I discern a symbol of you. The blue of your eyes, 
the lily of your cheek, suffused at times by a wild-rose blush, most 
exquisite, the yellow of your hair. I should never have courage 
to say these things, but I write them, and I remain unknown, lest 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


77 


knowing me, you should esteem me unworthy and reject my love 
before weighing its value. One cold glance from you, Mary, 
would be more chilling than a frost. Therefore, if you frown at 
my words, this cold, inanimate paper can not feel the cruel thrust. 

“ You have, I know, a feeling heart. Indeed, I have already 
endowed you with all those qualities which, alas ! too rare, men so 
highly value. I know you generous, high-minded, loyal, as you are 
sweet and pure and fair. Popular report has, for once, set its 
sanction on a lover’s rhapsodies, for I find you are dearly beloved 
in this little corner of paradise, wherein it has been your happy 
lot to dwell.” 

Mary laughed softly to herself as she folded the thick sheets 
of parchment, surmounted, each one, by the Silver Ax. She 
wrinkled her pretty brow in an effort to discover who the writer 
could be. She named over to herself, more than one local youth, 
but grew mirthful at the thought that any of them could have put 
on paper so much poetry and sentiment. 

“ He is a very foolish fellow, whoever he may be,” Mary said 
to herself, gazing at the paper in her hand. “ He writes to me as 
if I were a goddess, which is very wrong and absurd. I fear he is 
but amusing himself with a simple country maiden. Yes, he is 
very foolish — but he writes well.” 

And for all her good sense and shrewdness a little smile played 
about Mary’s mouth, as she wondered once again who could have 
composed these epistles, and repeated softly to herself some of the 
phrases, declaring that they were very pretty. Mary was kept busy 
almost every day, for in those times there were no labor-saving 
appliances for the housewife, and even in the houses of the wealthy 
there was constant work. To light a fire meant striking flint and 
igniting tinder. If sugar were needed, a slice had to be cut from 
the great cake. Candles were homemade, and had to be set in 
molds, flax was spun, wool carded and dyed with the bark of red 
oak or hickory, with the juice of the goldenrod mixed with alum 
and indigo, making an exquisite green, while the poke berry, 
boiled with alum, gave a rich crimson, and the petals of the iris 
a soft purple. All this, besides the ordinary domestic labors, gave 


78 


THE SILVER AX. 


employment for every one, and Mary took her full share. So that 
it was in her hour of leisure, toward sunset, that she read the mys- 
terious documents which she took from their place of concealment 
in the morning and carried in her bodice all day. 

Letter dated J uly 5 : 

Yesterday I sat under a tree to read, Mary. I had a book 
of Latin verse in my hand, and I strove hard to keep my thoughts 
upon it. All at once a squirrel came by, busy, the frugal rogue, 
in laying up stores for the winter. He was a dainty little wood- 
rover, and seemed to have much curiosity concerning me, or per- 
chance, he wanted a peep into the classics. But I shut my book 
and held speech with him. 

“ ‘ Wood-ranger/ I asked him, ‘ do you know one Mary Mar- 
tin? Has the rustle of her silk gown or the tread of her dainty 
feet ever affrighted you? Did you note how blue were her eyes, 
and mistake, perchance, her hair for the tassels of the corn? ? He 
eyed me curiously, as if he were reflecting, and sat upright, at 
his ease, upon the fence. c If you have not seen her, most thought- 
ful rodent, then have you seen none like her. Ho maiden in all 
these parts can compare with her, and as she walks these sum- 
mer woods, there is sweetness unsurpassed in her grave and sober 
bearing. Perchance, if she spies you, her gravity gives place to 
smiles, oh happy little rodent. Has she ever sought to make a 
captive of you, or is she content with the prisoner her golden locks 
have taken ? ? Then I told him many more things about you, 
Mary, which I am unwilling to set down here, lest they might 
offend you. Well, the squirrel will never reveal my foolish secrets, 
Mary, not even if you were to beg it of him. He took care that 
my confidences should not be indefinitely prolonged, having little 
svmpathy with idlers. So when he had gone upon his way, bur- 
dened with all my folly, I was left alone with my poet, and I spied 
out many lines on his page which described you to perfection. So 
I said them aloud in my foolish ecstasy, over and over again, 
waking the echoes, those nymphs of long ago who loved and 
vainly. I am a prolix love-maker, am I not? But then I can 
not see the pretty yawn, and if you throw down the sheet in weari- 


ANNA T. SADL1ER. 


79 


ness, why, the act does not fall upon my heart as though I stood 
face to face with you, chidden for my lack of wit. 

“ That is why I hide behind the door of mystery. I can speak, 
and you, sweet Mary, can not bid me to be still. So shall I tell 
you everything that is in my heart, as far as written words may 
do so, before ever you look upon my face. And if you do not read 
the lines, at least I have written them. I dare not meet you, and 
so you know me tfnly by the Silver Ax, the symbol of our race, an 
honest and a gallant one. Would that the ax might hew down all 
obstacles between you and me, and, then, in some far future, per- 
chance, I might come into your presence and say — But I dare 
not think of that. God keep you Mary, as He has kept you hith- 
erto, the purest and fairest flower in His creation.” 

There were no yawns while Mary read these lines; the long 
lashes lay upon her cheek, as she bent over them, and she pondered 
upon the strangeness of it all. She strove to picture this unknown 
lover, seated under the tree with his book of Latin poetry, and to 
guess what his face might be like, the color of his eyes and hair, 
and what manner of dress he affected. Her curiosity and interest 
were rising to fever-heat; would she ever behold this mysterious 
being, or would he carry on this farce of concealment to the end ? 

Letter dated August 10 : 

“ Sure you never gave any of my sex more than a passing look 
or thought, Mary. To you we were as earth worms, busy with 
trivial matters, while you soared high above us. And the thought 
of a foolish fellow striving to awaken your interest, kindle your 
pity, and finally reach the stronghold of your heart, fills you with 
amusement. You sit serene on your pedestal up yonder, spying 
me and the rest of my sex from afar, with serious eyes, for you, I 
make no doubt, are too kind for jest or mockery. But Mary, it is 
my earnest prayer that you stoop, one day, even so low as to look 
into my eyes and read there the story I try to tell upon these 
pages.” 

Letter dated August 19 : 

“Have you any curiosity concerning me, Mary? Do you 
think of me as crabbed and sicklied o’er with the pale hue of 


80 


THE SILVER AX. 


thought ? Or as robust of frame, and lover of all outdoor things ? 
Would you have me fair or dark, or of the neutral tints that are 
known as chestnut? If your favorite type be fair, then must I 
bewail myself forevermore. If you prefer those of dark com- 
plexion, then must I rejoice that my hair is raven black, my eyes 
to match, and my skin of a dusky olive. I will confess at once, 
Mary, if you esteem comeliness in our sex as an essential, then 
must I fall short, for nature has been niggardly, and never could 
I take my stand as a beauty man to win a woman’s favor. Think 
of me as without personal attractions, and only the wit to know 
you for the daintiest and most admirable of your sex. 

“ Last night I stood gazing at the moon, as is a lover’s wont. 
Every lover since the world began has looked unto that sphere of 
light for I know not what of comfort. Like any other crack- 
brained fellow, at whom I have often jeered, I apostrophized the 
goddess of night, and talked such love-nonsense as had sent one 
to Bedlam if I uttered it in open day. For, if I be wise in aught 
else, here, at least, I lack wisdom, and here is a curious phase of 
the lover’s madness, that the wisest lady will the most certainly 
disorder his wits. The moon resembles you, Mary, so high above, 
so ethereal, sweet and unconscious, shedding around such blessed 
light, yet leaving us poor men to sigh uncomforted. 

“ Ah, Mary, Fortune is an ill jade to have made me timorous. 
A bolder spirit would have ventured into your presence. Had I 
done so, I must have been struck dumb, and remained mute before 
you, as the sun-dial in the presence of the sun, which yet is swayed 
by that luminary and lives but to reflect him. Adieu, Mary ! That 
is a pretty word the French have, and I will borrow it and write 
it down here under our American oaks, in this forest of Vermont. 
Mary, ’tis the one name. I have always loved it, first for Her 
whom we all in common reverence, and who has been, sweet Mary, 
your model, I make sure. In your prayers, at least, have a thought 
of me. Adieu, Mar}', adieu.” 

A letter dated August 23 refers to that year being- the initial 
one of the century: 

4 ‘ The. dawning of a new century, Mary, has brought me a 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


81 


new hope, a new horizon, full of roseate clouds. Your delicious 
image has arisen on it, so fresh, so pure, so undisturbed by the 
world and its storms. I pray you, IVfary, to read this at sunsetting 
and to give me in the spirit a few moments of your company. I 
feel that I can not much longer do without you, and then will 
come the crisis, when I may lose all. Turn your thoughts toward 
me, Mary, and let them be gracious, with some tenderness, if it 
may be. My thoughts shall be going to meet yours with great 
love. To begin the century with this light upon it is a great 
matter for me. You are as a beacon, sweet child, to a world- worn 
wanderer. Yor can you quite extinguish this light, even though 
you withdraw all hope, for love is as the glowworm and must 
shine from its nature. Be kind, then, be pitiful; think of the 
great love that guides my pen. I grow more bold as my love in- 
tensifies, and I ask myself, shall I spend any years of this century 
in the light of Mary’s eyes? Some day, and that day may 
not be far distant, I shall walk into your presence. May your 
heart have softened toward me before then. Farewell, Mary, 
Mary ! ” 

That these letters were having their almost certain effect upon 
a girl who had led a secluded life, with scarce any companions 
of her own age, may be gathered from the dread which was 
awakened in her mind during those last days of August. . In an 
interview with her father, he reminded her that she was to all 
intents and purposes betrothed to the son of his old friend, Robert 
Barron. This young gentleman had long been abroad, and Mary 
scarcely remembered to have seen him. 

“ Of course, I can not force your inclination,” her father 
had said, “but this union was agreed upon between the parents 
on both sides, and has not only our hearty sanction, but I shall 
regard it as a real misfortune if you should refuse to ratify the 
agreement. Financially, it will be of the greatest aid to me, as I 
tell you in confidence that my affairs have become somewhat in- 
volved. Arthur Esmonde Barron, the son, is a fine fellow. I have 
always heard the best accounts of him, so that you will be a lucky 
girl. But the weightiest reason for my choice remains untold. 


82 


THE SILVER AX. 


He is a Catholic, and there is none other in the State whom it 
would befit yonr station to wed.” 

“ But, but, Mr. Barron himself ? ” inquired Mary. 

“ Oh, he has returned this week. I have had a letter from him, 
and he expresses his entire willingness to fulfil that old contract, 
provided only your full and free consent can be obtained. Other- 
wise he will not present himself.” 

“ Father, I can not for the present at least,” Mary stammered 
out. “ I will explain, but tell Mr. Barron that circumstances have 
made it impossible.” 

And to her father’s amazement, she hurriedly left the room. 
After that she went about very sadly for a day or two. Her father 
forbore to question her for the time being, and she presently re- 
ceived this letter, dated August 29 : 

“ I could not read my poetry to-day, Mary, because none of 
the lines, in any measure, expressed my feeling. Nov could I 
make you fit them any more. So I turned to nature, and in its 
beauty saw you. You are more lovely in your sadness than even in 
your joy. I saw upon your cheek a tear, and it wounded me to the 
heart while it filled me with joy. Can I guess why you weep ? Ay, 
truly, for whatever concerns you is whispered to me by the very 
birds in the tree-tops. I feel it in the air. It thrills in the song 
of the nightingale. I rejoice, Mary, oh, how I rejoice, that you 
have, for the present at least, refused to fulfil that old-time con- 
tract. For it fills me with hope that my letters may not have left 
your heart untouched. Oh, if I could believe that true, a hundred 
contracts, a thousand suitors could not keep me from your side. 
Your father alleges as a grave and first reason that you must 
marry a Catholic. But, if there are none other in the State who 
may aspire to your hand, there are other States, Mary, and other 
Catholics in them. Mary, the moment has come when, if you 
have any hope to give me, you must cast maidenly shyness aside. 
If I have any interest in your heart, let me know it without delay, 
lest our two lives be wrecked. If, on the other hand, these letters 
have been fruitless, leave one line in the summer house to declare 
that it is by no means on account of them that the contract re- 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


83 


mains unfulfilled, and that they had better cease. It has come 
to that, Mary. Either I must have more or nothing. Alas, how 
slight is my hope that these lifeless letters have touched your 
heart ! And yet but one word and my Silver Ax will chop down 
every obstacle between us. Oh, that that divine tear had fallen 
for me or that a ray of pity would shine upon my loneliness ! But 
I have marked you at church with reverent awe, and felt my own 
unworthiness. I have watched you visiting the poor, ministering 
to the sick. You will be one day the strong and valiant woman, 
a bulwark of strength to some happy husband. Mary, all nature 
is singing your praises, and my heart cries loudest of all.” 

At dusk that evening, Mary, with scarlet cheeks and head 
bowed, as if she were a culprit, stole to the summer house and 
left a paper there. It held but a few words : 

“ If Silver Ax would but come forth from behind the door of 
concealment, and let M. M. see him once, it might help in a de- 
cision she will have to make.” 

How full was the summer night of sweetness, the gorgeous, 
glowing stars shining in the azure depths, the scent of a thousand 
flowers, the warm breath of the night wind, vibrating with the 
strange witchery of the hour. Mary stood still, sighing happily. 
She felt that a crisis had come. If Silver Ax did not appear, she 
must never read his letters more, but putting aside this idle 
romance, accept seriously and solemnly the life partner chosen 
for her. But if he came and talked as he wrote, if his character, 
station, and religion were all that she desired, why, there would be 
a conscientious reason against marrying another. The slip of 
paper was gone next morning, but there was no answer, and Mary, 
with a new and painful feeling of utter despondency, began to 
fear that this course had been distasteful to Silver Ax, who seemed 
to love silence and mystery best. As she sat in the summer house 
that morning, she knew that the mysterious personality of Silver 
Ax had become dearer to her than anything else, and with the 
cessation of his letters, a strong and vital interest would have 
passed from her life. On the following day she received orders 
to prepare for a visit from Mr. Barron. 


84 


THE SILVER AX. 


“ I can not tell why he comes, since I could give him no en- 
couragement, but so it is,” said Mary’s father. Very sadly the girl 
put on her gown of sky-blue taffeta and white muslin kerchief, 
feeling as if she were dressing for the sacrifice. As she waited 
with her father in the stately drawing-room, a carriage drew up 
to the door, heavy and old-fashioned, drawn by fine horses. Thence 
alighted a tall man, somewhere in the thirties, slender of frame 
and of much distinction of bearing. He wore a scarlet coat, white 
satin embroidered waistcoat, black satin breeches, white silk 
stockings and buckled shoes. It was the dress worn by men of 
fashion in town. Mary’s heart beat fast and her father’s first 
words to the stranger sent the hot blood to her cheeks : 

“ Ah, my boy, it does me good to see the old coach drive about 
again, with the Silver Ax on its panels. But how long have you 
been home ? ” 

The stranger was for a moment embarrassed, but he answered, 
presently : 

“ I have been home something more than three months. I have 
had reasons for keeping quiet.” 

His eyes were on Mary, and it seemed as if he could see nothing 
else. Mr. Martin, astonished, answered somewhat coldly: 

“ I have no desire, sir, to penetrate into your private affairs.” 

The young man cast a look at Mary. 

“ Perhaps Miss Martin understands my reasons.” 

His glance had a magnetic quality in it, which compelled the 
girl to look up. 

“ I think I do,” she said, presently, blushing deeply and drop- 
ping her eyes. 

Meanwhile the father looked on with a half smile. 

“ You deal in mysteries,” he said, “ but I can perceive by my 
daughter’s countenance and your own, Mr. Barron, that there will 
be no great obstacles to the fulfilment of the contract.” 

“ Ho, sir,” said Arthur Barron, with a bow, “ we are prepared 
to fulfil the contract as speedily as possible. It rejoices me to 
hope that I have hewn away all obstacles with my Silver Ax.” 


THE DISAPPEARANCE OF 

BARBARA MARCHMONT. 

BY MAGDALEN ROCK. 

“Who is that gentleman, Selina?” 

Lady Selina Dunstable turned to the girl who occupied the 
seat by her side in her pony phaeton. A moment before the elder 
lady had pulled up her tiny steeds to exchange a few words with 
the gentleman Ethel Creighton referred to. 

“ That ! I thought you knew him ! He is Geoffrey Eversley, 
of Kingscombe.” 

“ How solemnly you say it, Selina ! Pray what is he remarka- 
ble in ? He is a very good-looking man, I admit.” 

“And very good, also. He is the largest land-holder in the 
county and a Catholic.” 

“Oh!” 

“Yes, the Eversleys have been Catholics always. At Kings- 
combe, a charming old place full of quaint nooks and hiding- 
places, there is a room where priests were wont to hide in the old 
times.” 

“Is Mr. Eversley popular in the neighborhood?” Miss Creigh- 
ton asked. Her own home was in the English Midlands, and the 
only Catholics she had met were a few Irish laborers. 

“ Indeed he is,” Lady Selina answered. “ Very popular. There 
isn’t a marriageable girl of my acquaintance, either Catholic or 
Protestant, hut would grasp at the chance of becoming mistress 
of Kingscombe.” 

“ Then Mr. Eversley isn’t married,” Miss Creighton said. 

“No, nor do I expect he will marry.” Lady Selina’s bright 
85 


86 DISAPPEARANCE OF BARBARA MARCHMONT. 

face clouded over. “ He does not forget Barbara Marchmont. 
She was to have been his wife.” 

“ Did she die ?” Miss Creighton asked, in a lowered tone. 

“ No; if she had perhaps he would have forgotten.” 

“ Did she marry some other person ?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“ How mysterious ! Come, Selina, be charitable. You know 
I am of an exceedingly curious disposition naturally. What be- 
came of Barbara Marchmont?” 

“ She disappeared on the eve of the day on which she was 
to have been married,” Lady Selina explained. “And,” she 
paused a moment and puckered her white brows, “ that is just six 
years ago this very day.” 

“ Well ?” interrogatively. 

“I’ll just tell you the whole story.” Lady Selina loosened 
the reins and allowed the ponies to move on at a sober pace. 
“ You know that pretty cottage where Mrs. Brown lives now ?” 

Miss Creighton nodded. 

“Well, it had been vacant for a long time when we learned 
it was let to a widow named Marchmont, and immediately 
on the announcement it was taken possession of by Mrs. March- 
mont and her daughter. I was not a year married then, and I 
found the country so dull that even the arrival of a widow 
and her daughter roused in me some excitement. I cannot tell 
you how disappointed I was when it was known that the new 
arrivals were Catholics.” 

“Why?” 

“ I really can not explain. Perhaps I had some thought of 
making a friend and companion of Miss Marchmont ; perhaps be- 
cause I was, and am, a little narrow-minded and intolerant.” 

“But Mr. Eversley is a Catholic.” 

“ Oh, that was different. The Eversleys were people of posi- 
tion. Well, for a time the mother and daughter were left to 
themselves; nor did they seem to consider that any particular 
hardship. They were devoted to each other. Mrs. Marchmont 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


87 


was a little delicate, and had no wish to see much society; and 
Barbara found enough enjoyment in her books and music. I 
was the first,” Lady Selina went on, “ to discover that Geoffrey 
had fallen in love with Barbara, and I forgave him the indiscre- 
tion. She was very beautiful. Picture to yourself a tall, slender 
girl of twenty with delicate, clear-cut features, lit up by eyes of 
changeful gray. Her hair was of that rare hue which the old 
Venetians loved to paint, and her manner unaffected and refined. 
She had been educated in a French convent, and possessed that 
mingled simplicity and dignity that convent-bred girls so often 
have. Geoffrey’s wooing was not a long one, and it was at a 
small dance given by me that the two became engaged.” 

“ And his people — he had people, I suppose — did they ap- 
prove?” Miss Creighton inquired. 

“ His only relative was his mother. I do not think she was 
pleased with her son’s choice, but he was of age to judge for him- 
self, and Mrs. Eversley tried to be satisfied. Well, they were en- 
gaged, as I said; but on the very next day Mrs. Marchmont was 
taken suddenly ill, and before the end of the week Barbara was 
an orphan. Geoffrey pleaded hard that the marriage should 
not be postponed unduly, and Barbara agreed that it should take 
place before the ensuing Advent. It was to be a very quiet affair. 
The arrangements were all completed, the little Catholic church 
was adorned with flowers, the few old friends of the Eversleys 
domiciled at Kingscombe, Geoffrey had parted from Barbara on 
the wedding eve, and she was then in her usual spirits, but when 
her old nurse went to wake her on her wedding morn she found 
her mistress gone. Afterward we heard she had left for London 
by the first train in the morning.” 

“ How did Mr. Eversley take it ?” 

“ Badly ; but he gave up none of his usual avocations, and was 
returned as our Parliamentary representative at the next general 
election.” 

“ Did he never hear from Barbara?” 

Lady Selina shook her head. 


DISAPPEARANCE OP BARBARA MARCHMONT. 


“I think not. Indeed, I am certain he did not. There is 
the whole story for yon, Ethel.” 

“Were there no conjectures, no surmises?” 

“ Oh, certainly ; and all equally baseless. What grieved 
Geoffrey most, I think, was the fact that Barbara had little money 
in her purse, and that she would be under the necessity of earning 
'her living. Mrs. Marchmont’s annuity had died with her.” 

“ And you think Mr. Eversley will never marry ?” 

“ Never, except he marries Barbara Marchmont, and that’s 
not likely.” Lady Selina cracked her whip and addressed her 
ponies, “ Come, Dot, come, Dido ; the sun has gone down, and two 
miles between us and home.” 

When Geoffrey Eversley had greeted Lady Selina Dunstable 
and passed on, he did not take the turning in the road that would 
have brought him to the entrance of Kingscombe. Instead, he 
turned into a less frequented path. He remembered only 
too well that the day was the anniversary of what was to have 
been his wedding day, and he was puzzling, as he had often done, 
over Barbara’s strange disappearance. He had been able to trace 
her to London without any difficulty, but that was all. Mrs. 
Marchmont’s old servant had been as much perplexed as any one 
over the occurrence. She had gone to the village on some busi- 
ness on the memorable evening, and on her return Miss March- 
mont was in her own room, and but a few words had been exchanged 
between them. It had been Geoffrey’s care to see that the old 
servant was established in comfortable quarters at Kingscombe. 
She had her own rooms there, and the savings that had accu- 
mulated during her service with Mrs. Marchmont lay undisturbed 
in the bank where she had placed them. 

Geoffrey walked onward quickly. The road he had taken lay 
through a wide and far-spreading moor where human habitations 
were few. As he moved forward with downbent head, he did not 
notice the tints taken by the clumps of heather as the sun sank in 
red and purple clouds, nor the grotesque shapes the stunted trees 
and shrubs assumed in the fast gathering gloom. Suddenly the 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


89 


silence was broken by a piercing scream, and Geoffrey stood still 
and recalled his wandering thoughts. The cry came from a small 
cottage that stood a few paces back from the roadway. A woman 
named Mrs. Crewe, who earned a living by dressmaking, lived in 
it, Geoffrey recollected. 

“ Help, help ! For God’s sake, help !” a woman’s voice cried, 
and Geoffrey grasped his stick firmly and strode toward the house. 
He knew the woman lived alone, and he had no doubt but some 
tramp had entered the cottage with felonious intent. 

“ Stop screaming,” another voice, and that a masculine one 
said. “ Write as I bid you or it will be worse for you.” 

“ I won’t,” the first voice said, “ you’ve robbed Miss March- 
mont long enough.” 

Geoffrey paused as the name reached his ears, and again a 
cry sounded on the night air. 

“ Do you want to kill me ? Oh, help !” 

In an instant Geoffrey was in the house, with his Hand grasp- 
ing the collar of the man’s coat. The woman had recoiled back- 
ward at his entrance. 

“ Drop that knife !” Geoffrey ordered, and the man let the 
carving knife he held in his right hand fall on the floor. 

“ What account do you give of yourself ?” Geoffrey demanded, 
retaining his grip on the man’s collar. 

“ It was only a jest, sir, nothing more,” the ruffian explained 
in a cowed tone. “ Jane will tell you it was only a jest.” 

Geoffrey turned his glance to Mrs. Crewe. “ It was no jest,” 
the woman said, “ but he is my husband.” 

“ Oh !” Geoffrey exclaimed, “ I understood — ■” 

“Yes, I know. I said I was a widow. That was not true. 
I am George Harper’s unfortunate wife,” the woman interrupted, 
speaking rapidly, and Geoffrey’s hand fell to his side. 

“ Still a husband has no right to treat his wife as he was 
treating you,” Geoffrey said, “ and he should not go unpunished.” 

“ Oh, no, no, Mr. Eversley !’ the woman cried. “ I could not 
prosecute him. I only ask him to leave me in peace.” 


SO DISAPPEARANCE OF BARBARA MARCHMONT. 

The man muttered something which Geoffrey did not catch. 

" I will not write,” the woman said. " I did so too often.” 

“ You spoke of Miss Marclimont just now,” Geoffrey said. 
" What do you know of her ?” 

" Nothing, sir,” the man replied hastily. " That name was 
not mentioned.” 

The woman was silent, and Geoffrey thrust his hand into his 
pocket. 

" See here, my man,” Geoffrey held forth half a dozen yellow 
coins ; " if you can tell me anything of Barbara Marclimont these 
are yours.” 

The man’s eyes glistened, but he hesitated. 

" Tell him all,” his wife urged, " Mr. Eversley is a gentleman, 
and you can trust him, George.” 

" You will not use my statement against me?” George Har- 
per questioned. Geoffrey shook his head. 

" I can not promise.” 

"Well, no matter. I am a ticket-of-leave man.” 

Geoffrey was not surprised at the information. 

" When I came out of prison six years ago, I set out for this 
part of the world. I knew Jane, my wife, was settled here some- 
where, and earning money; but I made a mistake in seeking her 
house. Instead of coming here, I went to the house Miss March- 
mont lived in,” the man continued, 

"Well?” Geoffrey asked. 

"We had one daughter at the time I was sentenced. I know 
now she died soon afterward, but then I did not. I waited till 
dusk and entered the house where Miss Marchmont lived. I 
asked where her mother was, and was told she was dead. Then I 
informed her I was her convict father.” 

" You scoundrel !” Geoffrey exclaimed. 

The man smiled sinisterly. 

" Well, perhaps I thought she was my daughter, perhaps I did 
not ; but at any rate, I saw by the appearance of the house that she 
was in comfortable circumstances, and I thought it was no harm 


MAGDALEN ROCK . 


91 


to try what I could make of her. I soon saw the girl knew little 
of her own father, and that the little she did know tended to cor- 
roborate my words. She gave me a five ponnd note, and begged 
me to go away at once, offering to meet me in London in a few 
days’ time. Of course I took the money and met her. She was 
greatly changed, even in a few days. I should say I had seen 
Jane in the meantime, and heard our child was dead.” 

Geoffrey signed to the speaker to proceed. 

“ The girl wanted me to live with her in some quiet country 
place and to turn over a new leaf.” The man laughed at the recol- 
lection “ Oh, she was an innocent! That didn’t suit my book, 
so I took what money she could give me, and since she has sent 
me a small sum quarterly. There, you know all.” 

“ Where is she ?” Geoffrey asked, and Harper replied : “ You’ll 
have to pay for the knowledge.” 

“ She is in Ireland, as governess, in a place called Westport,” 
the woman said. “ Many a time I was tempted to tell you, Mr. 
Eversley, but I feared George would kill me. How and then he 
came here to get me to write in the name of some landlady to 
Miss Marchmont, telling her of his sickness in order to get more 
money from her.” 

“ If I had been a scholar I would have done my own writing,” 
the man observed sullenly, “ but I never could form a letter.” 

George Harper left the cottage half an hour later, having sol- 
emnly promised to trouble his wife no more, and the next day 
Geoffrey Eversley started for Westport. Before he left Kings- 
combe he had a few minutes’ conversation with Mrs. Marchmont’s 
old servant. She wondered greatly why Mr. Eversley should in- 
quire about her late mistress’ husband, hut she answered his 
question at once. 

“Mr. Marchmont! Well, sir, the poor gentleman, to tell 
the truth, was overfond of a glass of wine, and when he lost his 
property in some mining speculation he became more intemperate, 
and at the end his mind gave way. My mistress had to place him 
in a private asylum, and he died while Miss Marchmont was at 


92 DISAPPEARANCE OF BARBARA MARCHMONT. 

school in France. Her mother never spoke of him to her, and I 
had orders not to do so.” 

“ Ah ! that explains,” Geoffrey said to himself. “ My poor 
Barbara !” 

Miss Creighton’s visit to Lady Selina Dunstable was not at an 
end when the news came of the marriage of Geoffrey Eversley 
and Barbara Marchmont. Lady Selina came in from making a 
round of afternoon calls with the tidings. 

“ They were married in some remote corner of Connemara, 
I hear,” Lady Selina said. “ Every one is wondering what the 
mystery was; but I am delighted. You remember, Ethel, I said 
Geoffrey would marry Barbara, or no one ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” Ethel assented, and added : “ We shall have you 
posing as a prophetess next.” 

At that same moment Geoffrey was saying to his wife : 

“But why did you go away, Barbara? You might have 
trusted me.” 

Barbara laughed tearfully. 

“ I knew you would still want to marry me, and I thought the 
best plan was to go away. The daughter of a convict should not 
be your wife. Oh, Geoffrey, he was a dreadful man, and as poor 
mamma never spoke to me of my father I believed all he told me.” 

“ Thank God I met him l” Geoffrey said. 


A PEARL NECKLACE. 

BY MAGDALEN ROCK. 

“ Just try a spoonful of this soup, Miss Courteney, and a bit 
of the breast of the chicken, do now,” Mrs. Mahon urged; and 
Hilda Courteney raised herself from the well-worn sofa on which 
she lay at the entreaty of her kindly Irish landlady. 

“ I will,” she said, “ but you must tell me who is paying for 
all the delicacies I have had during my illness and since. I 
have asked you before, but you put me off. Now, Mrs. Mahon ? ” 

Mrs. Mahon lifted a cushion that had fallen from the sofa, 
patted, and replaced it before she said: 

“ Listen to her, then ! Sure a sparrow would eat more than 
you do.” 

“ Well, who is paying ? ” 

“ Faith, then, if you must have an answer, ’tis myself that 
pays for the few things — ” 

“ Few things ! Jellies, soups, wine, not to speak of constant 
nursing and attendance ! ” 

“ Arrah, what a fuss about nothing ! Sure you’ll soon pay it 
all back when you begin to give the music lessons again. Not that 
you should begin for a while yet,” Mrs. Mahon added, hastily. 
“And here’s one of them weekly papers about lords and ladies 
— I can’t abide them myself. Give me the Weekly Freeman and 
home news for Sunday reading, and I’m satisfied. Well, well, 
if that’s all the harm you’re going to do I’ll take the tray off 
with me.” 

Hilda Courteney’s face wore a doleful enough look when Mrs. 
Mahon had closed the door behind her. Her father had been a 

93 


94 


A PEARL NECKLACE. 


London merchant, and his one child had been brought up to 
consider herself an heiress. At his death, however, he was bank- 
rupt, and Hilda found herself obliged to earn her living. She 
had received an excellent musical training, and some friends 
exerted themselves to find her pupils. For two or three years 
she managed to get along in a sort of fashion; but lack of 
nourishing food, and constant exposure to rain and cold slowly 
but surely broke down a none too vigorous constitution. She had 
no provision made for the proverbial rainy day when her illness 
came. Mrs. Mahon, in spite of a long residence in London, re- 
tained much of her Irish brogue, and all her Irish warmth of 
heart, and cared for the sick girl as if she were her own, and had 
drawn on her own scanty savings to defray the medical and other 
expenses of her lodger’s illness. 

“ Mrs. Mahon must have spent a good deal upon me,” Hilda 
thought with a sigh. “ Even were I at work again I should find 
it difficult to repay her. I wish — oh, where’s the good in wish- 
ing ! ” Hilda Courteney was naturally hopeful and brave, but the 
tears gathered and fell as she thought over her position. It was 
to distract her gloomy imaginings that she lifted the paper Mrs. 
Mahon had left. It was a weekly magazine that bore the name 
of the Globe , and it contained much information concerning 
the doings of -the smart people in society. One page was de- 
voted to the advertising of various articles — chiefly of dress or 
jewelry — which the owners wished to dispose of. One lady of- 
fered a set of Russian sables for half their value, another a gold 
watch as good as new, and so on. Hilda looked at the list of 
articles offered for sale, and suddenly started. A flush of color 
rose to her pale cheeks as she opened a drawer and took from it 
a small wooden box. The box contained a pearl necklace. 

“ I never thought of it ! ” she exclaimed. “ The one wedding 
present I was forced to keep. Walter’s aunt must have paid a 
good deal for it. If I could dispose of it ! Perhaps if I adver- 
tised it in the Globe I might find a purchaser.” 

She fingered the stones lovingly. Two years before her 
father’s death she had been engaged to be married to Waite** 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


95 


Leigh. The wedding day was fixed, the wedding guests invited, 
when the match was broken off. 

“ I don't like parting with it," she said aloud, “ but I must. 
It is the only article of value I possess." 

The advertisement she wrote out that night duly appeared in 
the weekly periodical; and a few days later Hilda received a 
letter signed Mary Dunstable, and dated from a fashionable 
London square. The writer mentioned a firm of bankers as 
reference, and asked to have the necklace forwarded on approval. 
Hilda managed to convey her parcel to the nearest post office, 
and registered it. The day was wet, and the first result of her 
walk was a cold that she found it difficult to shake off. Mrs. 
Mahon scolded and lamented, and was extremely indignant at 
Hilda's action. 

“ If I had known what you'd be up to I should have thought 
twice before buying that trashy paper," she said. “ Like as not 
you'll never see your necklace nor its value. The world's full of 
swindlers." 

In the meantime the necklace journeyed first to Miss Dun- 
stable's London home, and from there to the country house she 
was visiting. She opened the box at the Woodside breakfast table, 
and gave a little cry of rapture. Her hostess, a sweet-faced 
woman of about sixty, looked up from the letter she was read- 
ing; and the only other person at the table raised his eyebrows 
inquiringly. Mary Dunstable explained to Walter Leigh and 
his aunt. 

“ Isn't it lovely ? Oh, it must be worth much more money 
than is asked for it. Mustn’t it, Mrs. Leigh ? " 

Mrs. Leigh took the necklace in her hands and examined it. 
Walter gave his attention to his ham and eggs, till Mrs. Leigh 
in her turn gave a surprised cry, and turned to him. 

“ Walter, do you recognize this ? " 

“ Is it Mary's necklace, aunt ? " The gentleman held out his 
hand. “ Why, it surely is the one you gave — Hilda ! " 

"It is. I am quite certain." Aunt and nephew looked at 
each other. 


96 


A PEARL NECKLACE. 


“ Have you seen it before ? ” Mary Dunstable asked. “ It isn’t 
stolen property, is it ? ” 

“ No, no/’ Mrs. Leigh answered rather hastily. “ Oh, no, of 
course not. May I see the letter that accompanied the necklace ? ” 

“ Certainly.” The speaker handed the note^ she had received 
from Hilda to her hostess. That lady read it through. 

“ Hilda must be in some difficulties when she tries to sell my 
necklace,” she said. “ I heard somewhere that she was left quite 
unprovided for at her father’s death.” 

“ Oh, well, it doesn’t matter now,” Walter Leigh said hastily. 
The next moment he rose from the table, and left the room. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” Mrs. Leigh said. “ He hasn’t got over it yet. 
Of course you don’t understand, Mary. It all happened when you 
were in the school-room.” 

“ That isn’t so long ago,” Mary Dunstable laughed. 

“ No. You know that Walter’s mother and I married two 
brothers. Poor Clara died when her second baby was born. Both 
Walter and Julian were, naturally enough, often here.” 

Mary nodded. 

“ Where is J ulian ? ” she asked. 

“ He is dead, my dear. I am afraid we all combined to spoil 
him, and when he grew up he gave his father much trouble. He 
gambled and betted. He was very pleasant and fascinating when 
he pleased, and was, I am sure, more weak than wicked. His 
father paid his debts for him time after time. In the end he went 
to Australia and died there.” 

There was a silence, which Mary Dunstable broke by asking, 
while a flush rose to her clear olive cheek : 

“ About Walter — and this Hilda? ” 

“ Oh, it was of that I meant to speak. Walter was engaged 
some years ago to Hilda Courteney. Her father was supposed 
to be very wealthy, and Hilda was a very beautiful and accom- 
plished girl.” 

“Why was the engagement broken off?” Mary Dunstable knew 
very well why Mrs. Leigh had invited her to meet her nephew ; and 
she was not at all averse to fall in with the elder lady’s plan. 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


97 


“ The details of the marriage were all arranged. It was to take 
place at Leigh Hall by the express desire of Walter’s father. A 
week or so before the wedding day some valuable family jewels 
were stolen. They were taken one evening when we were all at 
dinner except Hilda, who was in her room with a headache. Some 
of the servants caught a glimpse of the thief, and one declared 
Miss Courteney had spoken to him. Hilda did not deny the truth 
of the maid’s statement; but she refused utterly to say anything 
of the matter. Walter begged her to speak, but she kept obsti- 
nately silent. Both Walter and she were hot-tempered and young, 
my dear. They quarreled bitterly, and the match was broken off. 
Hilda wished me to take back the necklace you have there, and 
which I had given her. With much difficulty I induced her to 
keep it, I was very fond of the girl.” Mrs. Leigh sighed. 

“ Was the thief found out? ” 

“Ho, nor were the jewels recovered. Walter and his father 
were anxious to find them. There were circumstances connected 
with them which made them of double value in their eyes.” 

“ And Miss Courteney ? ” 

“ Passed out of our lives. We heard of her father’s death from 
some one. Walter has ever since had a prejudice against all femi- 
nine society — that is, till lately.” 

Mary Dunstable carried the necklace to her room. She was 
trying to fasten its clasp around her neck when she upset the box 
which it had come in, and the velvet bottom fell out. She stooped 
to pick it up, and saw that a thin sheet of paper also lay on the 
ground, and unthinkingly she opened it, reading the first words of 
a letter written five years before. It began : 

“ Dear Hilda : You are a brick; but I promise you I shall turn 
over a new leaf when I reach the Southern continent. I will, in- 
deed. You know I couldn’t give back the family gewgaws. What 
use were they to Walter or my father ? If any one feels their loss 
it will be you, and I know you won’t grudge them to me.” 

The girl read so far, and let the paper drop from her hand. 
Then she lifted it, and turned to the last page. It was signed 
“ Julian Leigh.” 


98 


A PEARL -NECKLACE. 


“ So it was Walter’s brother took the jewels ; and Miss Courte- 
ney would not say who the thief was, though she lost Walter there- 
by.” A sad little smile passed over the girl’s face. “ Well, he may 
be restored to her. If I don’t put this letter out of my possession 
at once I may be tempted to destroy it. So here goes.” 

Mary entered the library in response to its occupant’s im- 
patient “ Come in,” and Walter rose from his seat not too readily. 

“ Look ! ” Mary held out the letter. “ It was in the box with 
the necklace. Oh, read it, read it ! ” Walter was handing back 
the paper. “It concerns you. Read it. I suppose she did not 
know the letter was in the box. Don’t be absurd, but read it.” 

Mary rushed from the room. She was not seen by any of the 
household till luncheon time. She felt she had acted rightly, 
yet her eyes were suspiciously red when she joined Mrs. Leigh at 
table. That lady bestowed her entire attention on her plate. 

“ Oh, yes,” she said, hurriedly, “ Walter told me. He’s off to 
London. Poor Hilda! Yet she ought to have spoken — one 
shouldn’t take things in one’s own hands.” Mrs. Leigh was think- 
ing of Mary as well as Hilda. “ I am going to pay some calls, 
Mary. Will you come ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly,” Mary answered promptly. 

That same evening Mrs. Mahon was astonished not a little by 
the arrival of a visitor for Miss Courteney. She eyed the gentle- 
man doubtfully. 

“ Miss Courteney isn’t at all well,” she said, “ and I don’t 
know if your visit might be pleasant to her or not.” 

Walter Leigh smiled. 

“ I don’t think it will be unpleasant — at least I hope not,” he 
said, and Mrs. Mahon moved aside, and pointed to the staircase. 

“ The door at the top of the landing,” she said. “ Now I trust 
I’ve done right ! ” 

Mrs. Mahon was satisfied on that point when, an hour later, 
she was introduced to Mr. Leigh. 

“I can not thank you sufficiently for all your kindness to 
Hilda,” he said, holding her hand in a warm clasp. “ I have just 
given her three days in which to prepare for our wedding,” 


SUSY DARRAGH’S STORY. 


BY MAGDALEN ROCK. 

The change that ten years of toil and sorrow had made in Susy 
Darragh, combined with Jane Brannigan’s failing sight, pre- 
vented the latter from recognizing the former when they met, 
one March morning, by the fire that burned behind the wire 
guard in Drumcross workhouse infirmary. Susy, on the con- 
trary, at once knew her former acquaintance; but the woman 
with the prematurely gray hair and bright sunken eyes, that told 
of the disease from which she suffered, had no wish to be known 
as the once light-hearted Susy Darragh, who had been the pret- 
tiest girl in Shangannon; and who had often bestowed some of 
her hard-earned pence on Jane, who had been nearly all her life 
“ a poor person.” In Shangannon, as in Father Russell’s quaint 
old house by the sea, the word beggar was under ban. 

“ Have you been long here ? ” the elder woman asked. 

“ Three or four jnonths,” Susy replied shortly. 

“ Dear knows, I never expected to end my days here ! ” J ane 
lamented. “ I was born in Shangannon of decent parents. Were 
you ever there ? Your voice sounds familiar.” 

A fit of coughing gave Susy an excuse for making no reply, 
and Jane went on: 

“ Faith, that’s the bad cough entirely ! Does the doctor give 
you nothing for it ? ” 

“ Aye ; but Dr. Murray says it is in consumption I am. There’s 
no cure for that.” 

Jane shook her head. “ ’Tis the rheumatics in my heart that 
brought me here ; and, troth, I’d rather be elsewhere.” 

Susy did not speak for some minutes. Suddenly she asked: 
“ What sort of place did you come from ? ” 


100 


SUSY DARRAGH'S STORY. 


“ From Shangannon. It is a village ; but I haven’t been there 
for a good bit. The woman I stayed with, Mrs. Neill — and by a 
chance only she was that — said she’d rather have my room than 
my company.” 

“ Mrs. Neill ! ” 

“ Aye. Steve Neill’s wife. Do you know her? ” 

“ I’ve heard the name.” 

“ She’s mighty genteel now, since Steve has begun to work 
for himself. Well, only for me she’d be Honor Kerrigan still ! ” 

“ How was that ? ” the younger woman questioned with re- 
strained curiosity. 

“ I suppose there’s no harm in telling you,” J ane Brannigan 
said. “ You wouldn’t tell the police?” 

Susy made a negative gesture. 

“ Well, anywa}r, I needn’t care,” J ane went on with mingled 
defiance and regret. “ I’m not long for this world. It’ll be ten 
years ago some of these days since Miss Moore got married. She 
was the well-liked lady, and the wedding presents she got couldn’t 
be counted. There was a girl named Susy Darragh back and for- 
ward about the house sewing. She, too, was about to be married 
to one Steve Neill.” 

“ Well ? ” The younger woman’s sunken eyes devoured her 
companion’s face. The latter, engrossed in her story-telling, did 
not notice the glance. 

“ Honor Kerrigan was a servant in Colonel Moore’s ; and she 
always had a fair word and something tasty for me when I called 
— I got my living from house to house, you know.” 

Susy nodded. 

“ Well, a bit before Miss Moore’s wedding, Honor gave me a 
small packet, and asked me to drop it in Susy Darragh’s box. 
Susy was alone in the world and lodged with a cousin of mine. 
Honor said it was a bit of joke they were playing on Susy. I did 
as she asked, and the next day Honor sent me on a message to her 
mother, who lived a dozen miles off. Mrs. Kerrigan made me stay 
three or four days, and when I got back to Shangannon it was all 
over.” 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


101 


“It! What?” 

“ Why, the row about Miss Moore’s diamond brooch. There 
was some doubt cast on Susy ; and the police got the brooch right 
enough in the box where I had left it.” 

“ You left it!” 

“It was in the packet. I thought it was some brass affair 
when I stole a peep at it. Oh, bad as I am, I wouldn’t have helped 
Honor Kerrigan to a man at the cost of sending Susy Darragh 
to jail.” 

“ She was sent to jail ? ” 

“ For twelve months. Steve Neill was terribly annoyed at 
first; but he was married to Honor before Susy’s time was half 
through.” 

“ Well?” 

“At first Mrs. Neill was mighty civil to me. I helped her 
about the house. Then she showed me the door.” 

“ But why didn’t you speak ? Why didn’t you clear the girl ? 
What sort of woman were you ? ” 

Jane whimpered: 

“ You needn’t get so angry. Sure, Honor frightened me, and 
said I’d be sent to jail, too. And she sent me back to her mother’s 
for a bit.” 

Susy Darragh rocked herself to and fro. “ If you had spoken ! 
If you had ! ” she moaned. 

“ What in the world is it to you ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing ! But would you keep to what you 
say?” 

“ If there was need for it ; but I heard long since that Susy 
Darragh was dead.” 

“ Dead ! Oh, aye, the best of her died.” 

“ What do you say ? ” 

“ Nothing at all.” Susy got up from her seat, and went to the 
ward where she slept. It took her but a few minutes to array her- 
self in her out-door garments and seek the matron. The latter 
lifted her hands in astonishment when Susy told her she was 
leaving. 


102 


SUSY DARRAGH'S STORY. 


“ ’Tis mad you are ! Why are you going away ? ” 

"I have got work to do/’ Susy replied sullenly. She had a 
few shillings, sufficient to defray the cost of her journey' to Shan- 
gannon, and that same evening she was in her native village. She 
had no difficulty in learning where Stephen Neill lived. 

“ He lives just beyond the chapel,” the man to whom she put 
her question answered. 

Susy nodded and took the well-remembered road. The brown 
thorns on each hand were showing their tender buds of green, and 
from the poplars that had grown so tall since she last saw them, 
larks and blackbirds were joining in their evening song of praise. 
Something of the peace and calm of the evening fell on Susy, and 
when she reached the little white-washed chapel she entered it 
and knelt involuntarily. The prayers she had so long neglected 
rose to her lips. “ ‘ Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them 
who trespass against us/ ” Susy repeated and paused. “ No, no,” 
she said. “ I won’t forgive that woman.” 

A few steps brought her from the little church to the house 
where Stephen Neill lived. The purple dusk of the March evening 
had fallen, and as she approached the house, a light sprang up 
within. Susy stopped as the interior was revealed to her, and drew 
a quick breath. The peat fire on the wide, open hearth was burn- 
ing cheerily, and by it the master of the house — in his working 
attire — sat. A child of three years old or so was on his knee, ex- 
hibiting some treasures in the way of bits of tin and pieces of 
string to the father’s loving eyes. Beneath the spot where the 
paraffine lamp swung, a table was laid for two ; and the poor way- 
farer’s eyes noted half unconsciously the white cloth, the bright 
knives and spoons and shining earthenware tea service. A pat of 
yellow butter lay on a glass plate flanked on two sides by plates 
bearing substantial slices of home-made bread. While Susy still 
gazed, a woman well preserved and comely came from an inner 
room with a jug of cream in her hand, and a little girl by her side. 

“Now, Steve,” she said, loudly enough for Susy to hear; 
“ tea’s ready. Bernard, get off your father’s knee. He’s too tired 
to nurse a big boy like you. Honor, reach the potato scone.” 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


103 


The little girl conveyed the buttered cake from the hearth to 
the table, and the mistress of the house, after a quick glance into 
the brown teapot by the fire, bore it to its place. Susy moved from 
the window toward the door, hot anger in her heart. 

“ What will Steve say when he hears what I have to tell ? ” she 
muttered to herself and paused. “ Aye, what will he say ! ” She 
turned again to the uncurtained window. Husband and wife were 
laughing over the efforts of the little boy to convey his mug of 
tea to his mouth ; and the unseen watcher marked Stephen’s proud 
glance as it passed from mother to son. 

“ What will he look like when I tell him ? ” she murmured. 
“ I’ll destroy his happiness and gain nothing. But she’ll be happy, 
too — I must tell.” Susy half-turned from the window. “ 4 For- 
give us our trespasses as we forgive them who trespass against 
us.’ That’s in our prayers.” 

The gloom deepened, and the March wind blew colder across 
the open country. Susy began, in spite of herself, to cough. 

“ Listen, Steve,” she heard Mrs. Neill say in her high-pitched 
voice. “ There’s some one outside,” and she had barely time to 
gain the high road when Stephen opened the door. 

“ Halloo ! ” he cried to the vanishing figure. “ Do you want 
anything*? ” But Susy, choking and coughing, hastened on past 
the little church and toward the village. Suddenly she staggered 
and fell; and at that minute the parish priest happened to come 
forward. 

When Susy recovered her senses she was lying in a comfortable 
room in Father Downey’s house ; and a doctor was beside her. She 
listened impatiently while he spoke. 

“ I know I’m dying,” she said calmly. “ And I only want a 
priest,” and Father Downey sat far into the night by his penitent. 

She died next day, and was laid to rest in the little church- 
yard, within stone throw of Stephen Neill’s house; but no one 
save Father Downey knows who sleeps in that lonely grave. 

















BIDDY GILLIGAN’S FAIRY. 

BY MAGDALEN ROCK. 

Some time or other, between two and three o’clock in the 
afternoon of each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Pat Nealon 
reached the little cabin where Biddy Gilligan lived. Pat was one 
of the local letter carriers attached to the post-office in Lisna- 
skerry ; and for the modest sum of ten shillings a week he, on these 
days, distributed the contents of the brown leather bag he car- 
ried among the inhabitants of the district lying south of the small 
provincial town. By the time Pat’s wanderings had brought him 
to Biddy’s abode he was usually ravenously hungry ; and the sight 
of the cracked brown earthenware teapot on the hearth and the 
big blue bowl on the table was to him a pleasant one. He was 
far enough advanced in years to be interested in Biddy’s talk of 
bygone days, and remembered as middle-aged men and women the 
youths and maidens who had been Biddy’s contemporaries, and of 
whom she loved to discourse. 

The wind was blowing boisterously one late March afternoon, 
and Pat had long been due at Biddy’s cabin, according to its 
inmate’s calculation. She was a bent old woman of perhaps eighty 
years of age, with snow-white hair and curiously bright black 
eyes. As she sat on a stool by the hearth she kept an anxious 
look on the small window by which the letter carrier had to pass 
before reaching the door. 

“ It takes Pat longer than ever on his rounds,” she muttered, 
querulously, as she placed a fresh sod on the fire. Then, with 
many a groan and ejaculation, she raised herself from her seat 
and hobbled, by the aid of a stick, to the door. The spring sun- 
shine was turning the gorse of the rocky hills that lay before her 

105 


106 


BIDDY GILLIGAN'S FAIRY. 


door to yellow gold, and Biddy gazed round her for a moment 
with a faint joy in the return of spring. 

“ Yonder he is at last,” she remarked to herself as Pat came 
into view. A few moments brought him to the street. 

“ I was near giving you up, man,” Biddy said, in tones of 
mingled welcome and fault-finding. “ It must be long after 
three o’clock.” 

“ It wants a minute of three ; ” Pat consulted the watch he 
carried, “ a minute exactly.” 

“ It must be more,” the old woman disputed. “ Anyway the 
kettle’s on the boil this hour past, so come in.” 

The pair entered the house, and Pat produced two miniature 
packages containing tea and sugar, and a buttered bun from the 
bag he carried, and proceeded to prepare his meal. Biddy had 
taken her seat by the fire. 

“ There’s milk in the bowl,” she said. 

“All right,” Pat responded. “Nothing strange?” 

“ Oh, nothing particular. The new curate was in yesterday 
evening and stayed a brave while.” 

“ Father Ryan. He’s a fine young man entirely,” Pat said. 
“ Sure never a one of us ever heard the like of the sermon he 
preached last Sunday.” 

Biddy sniffed. “ Oh, I suppose * he can talk ; but I haven’t 
much opinion of him. He’s fresh from college.” 

“ He is, I believe,” Pat assented. 

“ Well, sure it isn’t like poor Father Brady he is at all. Why, 
he would just sit down same as you’re doing and talk about one 
thing and another; but with Father Ryan it is different. Sure 
I’m not denying he may be very good, but he isn’t Father Brady.” 

“ That he isn’t,” Pat agreed. 

“ When I told him about the amount of land the Gilligans 
used to own, sure he didn’t seem to take it in at all. And when 
I mentioned the fairies — Well, you should have seen the look 
he gave me. ‘ My good woman,’ says he, ‘ there isn’t such a thing 
as a fairy.’” 

Pat was pouring out the tea. 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


107 


“Well?” he said, laconically. 

“ Well, I was able to answer him. I told him how my father 
wandered one night into the old rath, and how he wasn’t able to 
make his way out of it till day dawn; and it was himself had a 
stiff knee from that till the day of his death.” 

“ Well ? ” Pat said again as Biddy paused. 

“ And I told him how every Saturday night in the year, let 
it blow fair or foul, there’s a white shilling left under the door 
there.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” Pat had got settled to his meal. 

“ He laughed, and said it was a human fairy, and that I 
should have more sense than to believe in such nonsense. Father 
Brady never made a remark like that. He’d just nod his head 
and smile. And then this new curate said that I’d be more com- 
fortable in the workhouse.” 

Pat paused in his meal and looked round the one room that 
comprised Biddy’s cabin. Its furniture consisted of a couple of 
stools, a table, a dresser, on which a few plates and mugs were 
widely scattered, and Biddy’s big wooden bedstead. The white- 
washed walls were blackened with rain and soot, and, here and 
there, a hole was to be seen in the thatch. Pat lacked courage to 
say that he was of Father Ryan’s way of thinking. 

“ Well, the roof’s bad, you see,” he said. 

“ I know that ; and Pat Rafferty promised that he’d patch it 
up a bit; but then you never could heed a word the Raffertys 
said. Anyway, ’tis my own, and here I’ll stay till I die.” 

“ Oh, you’re a long road from dying yet,” Pat said, moving 
his stool to the fire. “ Did you hear that Ned O’Connor has got 
his ticket for America?” 

“Not a word! How should I hear anything! And has he 
got his ticket?” 

“ Ay, and isn’t it well ? There is more rent and debt against 
the place than it is worth. Sure the old man, his father, was the 
terrible ill-doing man entirely.” 

“ And the mother always at death’s door,” Biddy said. “ And 
who sent him the ticket? ” 


108 


BIDDY GILLIGAN’S FAIRY. 


“His cousin, Peter O’Connor, that went to America seven 
years ago. Sure Mary Blake won’t like Ned going away.” 

“ Mary Blake, a girl without a penny ! Ned wouldn’t be seen 
speaking to her ! ” 

“ Troth he would ! It isn’t many pennies he has himself, and 
Mary’s the brave little girl.” 

“ I have no opinion of the Blakes,” the old woman said. 
“ Only for Denis Blake going to law with my father — God rest 
him — over a bit of bog that always belonged to the Gilligans, it 
isn’t here I’d be now, Pat Nealon. And ’tis you yourself might 
know that.” 

“ Oh, to be sure. The law put both the men to the bad, that’s 
what it did. Still, Mary Blake had no hand in it.” Pat laughed. 

“ You’re like all men,” Biddy rejoined, contemptuously, 
“easily taken with a handsome face, and I suppose Mary Blake 
has that, though I have no liking for her.” 

“ She works hard enough at the lace-making to support her 
bedridden mother. She’s your nearest neighbor, too.” 

“ Well, I don’t see her nor want to see her, that’s all. I never 
had nor never will have any neighborhood with one of the name.” 

“ Oh, well,” Pat said, pacifically, “ that’s right enough, or 
anyway, it is your own affair. And now I must be going. There’s 
a grain of the tea and sugar there; maybe you’ll use it, Biddy.” 
Pat rose hastily. “ Good evening and good luck to you.” 

Such was Pat’s usual mode of departure. Biddy brewed the 
remainder of his tea and pondered, as she drank it, on what 
Father Ryan had said to her. 

“ A human fairy ! I’d like to find out. Well, please God, 
I’ll sit up next Saturday night and see for myself ! ” she muttered. 

Biddy did as she said. On the following Saturday night she 
left the door pushed to, but unlatched, and took a position on a 
stool beside it. She had kept her place for a very lengthened 
period according to her reckoning, and was about to retire to bed 
satisfied that Father Ryan was totally wrong, when she caught the 
sound of a cautious step, and the next instant the gleam of some- 
thing white beneath the door caught her eye. With a speed with 


MAGDALEN ROCK . 


109 


which few would have credited her, Biddy flung open the door 
and made a grasp at the shawled figure that stood for a brief 
second thunderstruck. After that momentary pause the figure 
dashed away, leaving the shawl in Biddy’s hands. 

“And so the new curate was right,”’ the old woman solilo- 
quized sadly as she sat huddled up over a smoldering sod. For 
years — ever since the rheumatism had taken such a grip of her 
— she had risen every Sunday morning to lift the silver coin 
from the threshold, in the belief that, however low the last of the 
Gilligans had fallen in the social scale, the fairy folk still remem- 
bered them. And now she knew that the shilling had been left 
weekly by a woman, and worse still, by a woman she did not love. 

“ Sure Mary Blake’s mother had just such a Paisley shawl 
for her wedding! And Mary goes with the lace to the convent 
every Saturday, Pat says; and she could come home this way. 
Oh, dear, ’tis chilled I am to the heart ! ” 

Whether old Biddy had caught cold by sitting at the door on the 
frosty March night, or whether the shattering of her cherished 
beliefs had, as she expressed it, chilled her to the bone, a neighbor 
who called to see the old woman, on her way back from second 
Mass at one of the country chapels, found her in such a bad state 
that she deemed it well to summon Father Eyan and the dispen- 
sary doctor. The two met in the evening in the cabin. 

“ She’ll go out like the snuff of a candle,” the doctor said. 
“ Weak heart, bad circulation, and bronchitis.” And the priest 
set about preparing the lonely old woman for her last long jour- 
ney. 

“And now, your Reverence,” Biddy said, when the last rites 
were administered, “ sure I have to ask your pardon. You were 
right about the fairies. The shilling was left by a neighbor ; and 
there are a few things I’d like to dispose of.” 

“ Very well,” Father Ryan said, kindly. 

“ The fowl and the goat ought to bury me,” Biddy calculated. 
“ Hens are a good price now. Anyway I want you to promise me 
that I’ll not be buried by the union. I couldn’t rest in a work- 
house coffin.” 


110 


BIDDY GILLIGAN’S FAIRY . 


The priest promised. It may be said that his own lean purse 
furnished the money to bury his penitent. 

“ And you’ll mind me in the Mass ? 99 

The priest again gave the required pledge. 

“ I leave none of my own behind me/’ Biddy went on, “ and 
I’d like Jane Conway, the woman that’s outside, to have the few 
bits of things inside, except the bed and the fiddle. I always in- 
tended to leave the bed — a fine feather bed it is — to Pat Nealon. 
He can get it.” 

“ And the fiddle ? ” the priest asked. 

“ It is in the case under the bed. Maybe your Reverence 
would pull it out. The fiddle was my father’s, and he set terrible 
store by it. Sure he could all but make it speak.” 

“ To whom do you wish to give it ? ” 

“ Many a time the people wanted it for the dances and wed- 
dings,” Biddy said by way of reply, “ but I took good care of it.” 

“ And you leave it to whom ? ” Father Ryan asked again. 

“ To the fairy that left the shilling on the Saturday nights.” 
Biddy gave a wheezing laugh. “ That’s her shawl inside the case,” 
and Biddy explained how she became possessed of the article. 

“ It looks like a shawl I have seen on Mary Blake,” Father 
Ryan said. 

“ I wouldn’t doubt it. Anyway, your Reverence can find out. 
And I’d be at rest if you’d take the fiddle with you. It might 
not be safe during the wake.” 

So Father Ryan walked home through the purple dusk of the 
March evening with the fiddle and the Paisley shawl in the old 
black case under his arm. It so chanced that a former college 
friend who had been abroad studying music was his guest, and 
to him the priest told of Biddy’s bequests. 

“ Let us see the fiddle,” Philip Derey said, and he gave a cry 
when he beheld it. “ Why, it is a Stradivarius ; a genuine Strad- 

ivarius,” he cried after a brief examination. “ It is worth ” 

he mentioned a sum that sounded preposterous in the priest’s ears. 

“ But it is,” Philip insisted. “ And Mary Blake, who ever 
she is, is a lucky girl.” 


MAGDALEN ROCK. 


Ill 


“ She’s a good girl at any rate,” Father Ryan said. 

And thus it was that Mary Blake became in course of time 
an heiress in a small way. Matt Grilligan’s fiddle was sold by 
Philip Derey for a sum that enabled Ned O’Connor to clear up 
the debts on his farm and start farming afresh when he married 
Mary Blake or, as Father Ryan termed her, “ Biddy Gilligan’s 
Fairy.” 



MRS. THORNTON’S PLANS. 

BY MARY E. MANNIX. 

Mrs. Thornton sat in deep meditation, a perplexed frown be- 
tween her pretty brows. When she had invited her young sister 
to spend the summer at Merlinton, with the distinct purpose of 
assisting her to make a desirable marriage, she had not calculated 
on the presence of her husband’s sister also. The invitation had 
been given before the death of her mother-in-law, which had 
changed all her plans. And now, to hav® two beautiful girls in 
the house at the same time was really more than she felt able 
to manage. For she was, beyond doubt, a managing woman, 
though her unsuspecting husband was entirely unconscious of the 
fact. 

But her late mother-in-law had read her well, and the young 
sister-in-law, influenced somewhat by the silent disfavor of her 
mother, had never cherished any affection for her. But when 
Mr. Thornton wrote to Alice that henceforth his home must be 
hers, the girl, so recently bereaved, had gratefully accepted the 
invitation, though she had no idea of making the arrangement 
other than temporary. 

It may as well be related at once that Mrs. Thornton had 
already chosen her sister’s future husband. 

Young, clever, well circumstanced, handsome, and a general 
favorite, Dr. Milnes could have had a wide choice among the 
young ladies of Merlinton, where the masculine sex was rather in 
the minority. As yet, while courteous to all, and apparently fond 
of society, he had shown no preference, and Mrs. Thornton felt 
that it behooved her to make sure of him for Alethea while his 
affections were still unappropriated. It would be pleasant to 

113 


114 


MRS. THORNTON'S PLANS. 


have her only sister near her. Family affection was Mrs. Thorn- 
ton’s most redeeming feature. Alethea was a pretty, stylish, soul- 
less little girl, but in Mrs. Thornton’s opinion there never was 
man so serious or learned as not to be captivated by a beautiful face. 
At the same time she had sufficient penetration to know that Dr. 
Milnes was in no sense frivolous, and that Alice’s chances would 
be very good should she meet the doctor before Alethea arrived. 
Alice possessed both beauty and brains. Moreover, in order better 
to care for her invalid mother, she had taken a partial course 
at a nurses’ training school, and if Dr. Milnes had any fad, Mrs. 
Thornton decided it was this. It would be a bond of sympathy 
between them from the first. Great mischief might be wrought 
before Alethea should arrive, provided Alice had a good start, 
which now seemed likely. 

Alice was to reach Merlinton on the morrow. Alethea, who 
was paying a round of visits at various county houses was not 
due at Merlinton for a month. Therefore it was that Mrs. 
Thornton sat with perplexed brows in the little summer-house 
at the end of the garden. But suddenly her face cleared, a pleas- 
ant smile played about her lips, and rising briskly she returned 
to the house, where she rejoiced the heart of her husband by the 
cordial way in which she spoke of the expected arrival. 

Three days later she was sitting with her sister-in-law on the 
piazza. 

“I am sorry,” she began, “that you are in deep mourning, 
Alice, dear. It will make it so dull for you not to be able to at- 
tend the lawn fetes that are just going to overwhelm us this sum- 
mer. And there are to be a couple of tennis-tournaments later 
on. You play tennis, don’t you?” 

“I did, formerly,” replied Alice, looking down on her inter- 
locutor from the balustrade, where she sat, fanning herself 
with her shade hat. “I used to like it very much. But I may as 
well tell you at once, Fanny, that as soon as I can obtain a desir- 
able position in one of the large hospitals I mean to take it. I 
like the work, and I could not be happy depending upon Edward.” 


MARY E. MANNIX. 


115 


Mrs. Thornton could scarcely help manifesting the pleasure 
she felt at this news. Oh that the position might appear very 
soon ! was her inward ejaculation, as she rapidly revolved the 
situation in her own mind. With great promptitude she came to 
* a decision. She would not invite Dr. Milnes to the house at all 
during the month. At the end of that period Alethea would have 
arrived, and it was fervently to be hoped that Alice, if the fates 
were kind, might have taken her departure. She felt sure that 
her husband could use his influence in favor of his sister. At 
the same time she knew that he would oppose her purpose. 

To Alice she said, very sweetly: 

“Don’t think of it, dear. I’d rather you wouldn’t. But if you 
must, why, we shall only have to give way to you.” 

And Alice, who was a girl of discrimination, read in her 
shifting eyes that she meant exactly the opposite of what she said. 

Thus it came about that Alice had been a month at Merlinton 
before Dr. Milnes was invited to a “quiet game of tennis, because 
of Mr. Thornton’s mother’s death and her sister-in-law’s mourn- 
ing, you know.” 

“Ah !” he had said. “Is your sister-in-law residing with you, 
Mrs. Thornton?” 

“Yes, but she insists in keeping a strict seclusion,” was the 
reply. 

“A widow?” 

“No,” hesitated Mrs. Thornton, in a tone that caused the young 
man to wonder if perhaps she was a divorcee. Being very discreet 
he made no further remark. 

Mrs. Thornton expected much from that lawn-tennis party. 
It was to be followed by a light supper on the lawn, with colored 
lights, music, etc. She confidently hoped that it would initiate 
a period of devotion on the part of Dr. Milnes which would event- 
ually result in the settlement of her sister in the neighborhood. 
She realized, however, that Alice could not be kept always in the 
farther background ; reserved as she might wish to be, it was in- 
evitable that she and the doctor must meet eventually. And 


116 


MRS. THORNTON'S PLANS. 


attractive as Alethea was in her dainty, airy beauty, Mrs. Thorn- 
ton could not resist the conviction that Alice, with her tall, slender 
figure and calm, spirituelle face might be a formidable rival. 

Everything seemed to fall in with her plans at the end. On 
the day before the proposed fete Alice received an offer from the 
Good Samaritan Hospital, which she accepted at once. She was 
to leave “Belle Vista” three days later, and the joy of her sister- 
in-law was supreme, particularly as she declined to take any part 
in the coming festivities. “I shall be too busy packing,” she said. 
“And I have letters to write. I want to straighten out all the 
odds and ends before I go.” 

The party was a success. Dr. Milnes and Alethea had enjoyed 
a long tete-a-tete in the garden, and Mrs. Thornton was happy, 
for the doctor had hitherto been conspicuous by the impersonality 
of his attentions. 

But soon all was changed. In the silence of midnight Alice 
was suddenly awakened from a sound sleep by her sister-in-law. 

“Alice, Alice !” she cried. “Come quickly. Edward is 
dying !” 

The girl sprang from her bed, and was soon at her brother’s 
side. 

“I think it is angina pectoris,” she said. “He had an attack 
some years ago. Where can we find a doctor?” 

As she spoke a loud clap of thunder shook the house to its 
foundation, and the rain began to pour in torrents. 

“Dr. Milnes lives a mile away,” answered Mrs. Thornton, 
wringing her hands. “There is no man in the house to send. 
What shall we do ?” 

But at the words “Dr. Milnes,” Alice had hurried from the 
room. In a very short time she returned dressed for the errand 
she was about to undertake. 

“The address, Fanny ?” she said. A moment later she was on 
her way. Quickly she sped through the driving rain, the wind 
almost taking her off her feet. When she reached the square 
where the doctor resided the rain began to abate. At the corner 


MARY E. MANNIX. 


117 


she met a policeman, who gazed at her curiously, and passed on. 
At length she stood in front of the house. A light was burning in 
the front room on the ground floor, and she rang the bell, shudder- 
ing to hear the sounds reecho through the silent night. It had 
not ceased reverberating when Dr. Milnes appeared at the door. 

“What is it ?” he inquired, peering into the darkness. 

“I beg that you will come at once to Mr. Edward Thornton’s,” 
replied Alice. There was a tremor in her voice. 

Dr. Milnes threw the door wide open. “Come in,” he said per- 
emptorily, and she obeyed him. 

For a moment they stood looking at each other. 

“Miss Windom !” he said. “How are you here?” 

“Never mind,” she replied. “My brother is very ill. Lose 
no time.” 

“Your brother !” he exclaimed, touching an electric bell which 
communicated with the stable in the rear of the house — he was 
already putting on his coat. 

“Bring some remedies,” she continued, “I fear it is an attack 
of angina pectoris.” 

He went into the office, returning presently with a small 
satchel. At the sound of wheels pausing in front of the house 
he opened the door. In a moment he had taken the reins from 
the groom, and she was sitting beside him in the carriage. 

Not a word was spoken till they reached the Thornton house, 
now all aglow with lights. They hurried up-stairs. Mr. Thorn- 
ton was still suffering, but much less severely than at first. After 
applying some remedies and leaving directions for future treat- 
ment in case of another attack before morning the doctor turned to 
Alice, saying: 

“I would like to speak with you a moment before I leave.” 

“He thinks she is the nurse. He has seen her at the training 
school,” thought Mrs. Thornton, who sat holding her husband’s 
hand. 

Alice had thrown off her cloak and hat. Her face, usually 
so pale, was flushed, her eyes shone like stars. 


118 


MRS. THORNTON’S PLANS. 


“How beautiful she looks,” thought Mrs. Thornton. “Excite- 
ment is very becoming to her.” 

Alice followed the doctor into the hall. He led the way down 
the stairs, through the open door to the piazza. There was a 
sweet fragrance in the air; the moon struggling through clouds 
was sending long lines of light upon the drooping leaves, glitter- 
ing with rain-drops. 

“Miss Windom,” said Doctor Milnes, “did you say that Mr. 
Thornton was your brother?” 

“My half brother,” she replied. “We had the same mother.” 

“Ah, I see ! And how long have you been here ?” 

“About a month.” 

“Why has no one seen or heard of you ?” 

“I am not going out. My mother is recently dead.” 

“You are residing with your brother?” 

“Only temporarily. I go to take a position at the Good 
Samaritan Hospital in a day or two.” 

The doctor bit his lip. “Excuse me,” he said, “but why did 
you not leave me your address?” 

“I was not requested to do so.” 

“Did not Mrs. Bird tell you when you left the hospital ?” 

“She did not.” 

“I asked her to do so. When I returned from Cuba I found 
you both gone. I wanted to ask you a question. May I ask it 
now ?” 

She hesitated, avoiding his eyes. 

“Can you not guess it ? Did you not know my feelings before 
I went away?” 

She remained silent. 

“What must you have thought !” he continued. 

“That I was mistaken,” she replied, with a swift, bright smile. 

He seized her hand. “May I ask it now ?” 

“I can not say no,” she said, again glancing away. 

“I love you. Will you marry me?” 

Her eyes tilled with tears. “I love you — I will marry you,” 


MARY E. MANNIX. 


119 


she said in tones scarcely audible. But he heard them, and for 
five or ten minutes longer the moon looked down on a pair of 
happy lovers. 

***** 

Mrs. Thornton received quite a shock the next morning, when, 
after having paid his patient a satisfactory visit, the doctor an- 
nounced the engagement. But, being a woman of diplomatic in- 
stincts, albeit they were sometimes misdirected, she accepted the in- 
evitable with a very good grace. Alethea found, without difficulty, 
a husband more to her taste than the grave young physician would 
have proven, and Mrs. Thornton is quite fond of bringing forward, 
both literally and figuratively, “my sister, the wife of Dr. David 
Dexter Milnes.” 

















MARY’S TRIAL. 

BY MARY E. MANNIX. 

The household of Jacob Bleek consisted of himself and 
daughter, a niece, the child of his dead brother, and a step- 
son of his deceased wife, who, from his entrance into the family, 
had been treated as a son. Both girls were named Mary, and in 
order to distinguish them the younger, the niece, was known 
as Marie. After Jacob’s wife died, the girls, aged sixteen and 
eighteen, assumed sole charge of the household, greatly to the 
satisfaction of the old man and the approval of their neighbors. 
Jacob Bleek was the proprietor of a small but flourishing farm, 

in , England, and added to his yearly income by keeping bees, 

in which line he was remarkably successful. 

Rudolph Marks, the stepson, was of great assistance to his 
adopted father, and was like an elder brother to the girls, who, 
though very fond of each other, were unlike, both in appearance 
and in temperament. Mary was dark and serious, Marie blonde and 
lively, always playing pranks on her companions, and never 
without a merry jest upon her lips, or a bright retort at the tip 
of her tongue. Her mischievous sallies seemed particularly 
directed against Rudolph, who was also of a grave and thoughtful 
disposition, but who never resented any of her innocent little jokes 
against him. Life flowed on peacefully at the farm until Rudolph 
was about twenty-five, when the death of an uncle who had emi- 
grated to America before the young man was born left him heir to a 
considerable property in the New World, and after mature thought, 
it was decided that he should go and take possession of it, and, if 
he was satisfied, make that country his home. While all at the 
farm thought the decision wise, every heart was filled with sorrow 

122 


122 


MARTS TRIAL . 


at the parting. When it was over, an unwonted calm settled upon 
the place for many days. The old man missed his faithful 
helper, and the girls their life-long companion. 

But letters soon began to come from America, giving glowing 
accounts of its wonderful extent and resources, as well as of the 
comfortable circumstances in which Rudolph found himself. The 
natural buoyancy of Marie’s disposition speedily reasserted itself; 
she was the center of every joyous assemblage, and might have had 
her choice of all the village suitors. Mary, too, was not without 
admirers, but neither of the girls seemed at all inclined to marry. 
There was not a thought which the outspoken Marie did not 
seem to share with her more than sister — but Mary, on the other 
hand, sometimes reproached herself that there was one little secret 
which she had never breathed to her confiding cousin. And yet 
she could not have done so — it was too impalpable for words — too 
sacred for expression. On the night before Rudolph’s departure 
she was on her way from the dairy, when he met her near the 
arbor, and said: 

“ Come, Mary, sit for a moment with me on the bench by the 
old apricot tree. I want to have a word with you.” 

She could not tell why her heart had beat so strangely as 
he took her hand, and followed him to the seat where the happy 
trio had passed so many pleasant hours together. “ Mary,” he 
began, when they were seated. “ If in a year I should write you 
a letter, asking a certain question, I wonder what would your 
answer be.” 

Then the merry voice of Marie had suddenly hailed them from 
the end of the path, and in another moment she had joined them. 

Sweet, but brief had been that instant’s revelation, bringing to 
Mary the knowledge that Rudolph was dearer to her than a 
brother, and from it was born a hope that grew and blossomed 
in her heart as the days and months went by. 

Rudolph had been gone a year. One evening Mary was sitting 
on the bench in the garden, now grown so dear to her from the 
associations it called forth, when Marie, who had been to the 
Post Office, came slowly toward her, holding an open letter in 


MARY E. MANNIX. 


123 


her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her whole manner betrayed 
unusual excitement. 

“ Mary,” she said abruptly, seating herself beside her cousin. 
“ This letter is from Rudolph. He has asked me to marry him. 
Read it.” 

Without betraying by a tremor the deep emotion which filled 
her soul at this unexpected news, Mary took the letter from her 
cousin’s hand and read as follows: 

“ My Dearest One : 

“ The title may seem strange to you, but that is how I have 
called you in my heart for many a day. I resolved to wait a year 
before asking you to be my wife. The year is over — and now I 
await your answer in hope and fear. Will you come to me, dearest, 
and be to me in truth as you have long been in my thoughts and' 
dreams, the darling of my heart ? The Arnsons leave for America 
in October — they are coming direct to this place. May I expect 
you, dear girl? Do not write that you can not marry me, but 
come quickly to your loving 

“ Rudolph.” 

Mary read slowly to the end. Then she looked fondly at her 
cousin and said: 

“ How is it with you, Marie ? Will you go ? Do you love 
him ? ” 

“ Oh, Mary, I believe I do,” replied the other. “ At least 
in comparison with him all the rest seem nothing. Is that 
love?” 

“ Perhaps it is — why should it not be, dear ? But you have 
concealed your feelings very well until now — ” 

“ I have never been sure. I should not have been unhappy 
if he had not spoken, but I do not believe I ever would have 
married another.” 

“ I think that is love — yes — that must be love,” replied Mary 
in an oddly constrained tone, which her cousin noticed. 

“ How strangely you speak, Mary,” she said. "Your voice 
sounds so queer. Oh, my dear, my dear, I will not leave you, if 
it makes you lonely — ” 


124 


MARTS TRIAL. 


“That would be a selfish affection indeed, which would 
sacrifice the happiness of another to its own demands,” said Mary, 
clasping her cousin’s hand closely in her own. “ I feel that you 
will be happy with Rudolph, and as for me,” she hesitated, stifled 
a sob, and continued: 

“ I have my father — my dear father — ” 

“ But, Mary, after he is gone, you will come to us ? Somehow 
I feel that you will never marry.” 

“ I never will,” replied her cousin with an intensity that sur- 
prised Marie. “ God grant that the day may be far distant when 
I shall have to part with my father.” 

“ He, too, has had a letter,” said Marie. “ Let us go to him.” 

They found him sitting beside the kitchen table in deep re- 
flection. An open letter lay upon his knee. 

“ How is this ? ” he exclaimed as the girls entered. Turning to 
Mary he continued : “ Rudolph wants to take you away from me ? ” 

“ Not me, father,” responded his daughter, calmly. “ It is 
Marie whom he wants.” 

“What?” rejoined the old man. “You puzzle me. See 
this; — •” 

The girl took the letter from his hand. The beginning re- 
lated to business affairs. Toward the close, it said: 

“Now, father, some one else will have had a letter to-day 
besides yourself. I want one of your treasures for my own garden 
— for my wife. Can you grant her to me ? I know that your kind 
heart and Mary’s will not say me nay.” 

“ You see — it is Mary he mentions — ” repeated the old man. 

“ Father, you misunderstand,” said Mary, in a voice of the 
greatest composure. “ Marie has had a letter. Rudolph wants 
her to go out to him, to America. What he says of me means that 
you and I together will help each other to give her up. Don’t 
you see, father ? ” 

“ Well, well, so be it then,” replied the old man. “ Right glad 
am I to give her to Rudolph, though it will be more lonely than 
ever now for you, my girl, with only the poor old man to keep you 
company. Yet sorry am I to part with her — the dear child — though 


MARY E. MAN NIX. 


125 


so it must be always as long as there is marrying and giving in 
marriage. God bless thee, Marie — thou wilt go to a kind and 
loving husband — ” 

That night they had a bottle of old wine for supper, and one 
would have hesitated to say which was the happiest of the three. 
But long after the others slept Mary knelt by the window, pray- 
ing. Henceforward life must be changed for her, but she was a 
brave girl, and no one was ever the wiser of her battle with sad 
and embittered thoughts, from which she came forth the victor. 
Yet it was all in vain that she tried to acquit Rudolph of in- 
constancy. His words to her on that last eventful evening could 
have meant but one thing — it tvas his fickleness that caused her 
heart its deepest wound. Still, she resolutely put the memory 
from her, and went about her duties as cheerfully as before. 

Hs * * * # 

One warm spring evening ten years later the mistress of the 
white farmhouse sat beside the open window of her little parlor, 
musing and singing softly a quaint old ballad she had often 
heard her father sing. His lips had been silent long, though the 
bees he had loved still hummed and buzzed and gathered honey 
in the sweet pastures of long ago. Marie also was gone — Rudolph 
had been a widower about eighteen months ; Mary’s thoughts often 
dwelt upon her cousin and the two children she had left, and as 
time passed she longed more and more to see them, who had been 
the idols of their mother’s heart. But that was never likely to 
happen, she thought — America was so very far away, and Ru- 
dolph’s letters since the death of his wife had been few and far 
between. A footstep roused her — a man stood in the doorway 
with outstretched hands. Changed, and yet unchanged — a 
little older, a little more portly, but the same Rudolph she had 
known, serious — manly, his eyes full of joy at seeing her. She 
stepped forward with a low cry. 

"Mary,” he said, and drew her close to him. "Mary,” he 
went on, " do not speak till I have finished. What must you have 
thought of me during all these years? Do not reproach me, till 


126 


MARTS TRIAL. 


I have told you all. It was a mistake — that letter — it was you 
whom I loved — always, always — ” 

“ And yet you pretended, — oh, Rudolph, did you deceive us 
both ? ” she cried, trying to withdraw from him. 

“I pretended nothing,” he continued hurriedly. "I pre- 
tended nothing. By some dreadful oversight I addressed to 
Marie the letter which was intended for you — realizing it only 
after it had gone. When she came, what could I do? All that 
was left me then was to make it impossible she should ever know, 
and she never did. I was a faithful husband to her in thought 
and deed; I mourned her when she died. But now she is gone, 
and I have come back to you — my heart’s love — as she would 
bid me do if from her place in heaven she could speak to me. 
Mary, I want you for my wife — ” 

Then all the pent-up emotion of her life broke forth, and for 
a long time he could not soothe her. But the storm passed, and 
once again she was the same gently-smiling Mary as of old, patient 
and sweet, sitting with her hand in his, while he told her the 
story of his life since he had left her. Suddenly he saw that it was 
growing dark. He sprang to his feet. 

“ Think of me ! ” he cried. “ Mary, you have made me forget 
my own children. They are waiting for me at the inn — my little 
boy and girl.” 

“ Your children ! ” she exclaimed. “ Why did you not bring 
them with you, Rudolph ? Marie’s children — ” 

“ Because I wanted to know what you had to «ay to me first,” 
he said. “ I could not be at peace a moment until I knew. But 
come, now, put on your bonnet and we will go down and get them. 
They love you dearly already as their cousin — I am impatient 
to introduce you to them as their new mother.” 


THE LAST TRYST. 

BY MARY E. MANNIX. 

Ax old woman was walking up and down the long acacia 
avenue in the garden of the Home for the Aged — under the 
supervision of the Little Sisters of the Poor. 

She had her beads in her hand, and presently, kissing the 
silver crucifix depending from the rosary, she made the sign of 
the. cross. A Sister was sitting darning stockings in a little 
summer-house near by. 

“ Good morning, Catharine,” she said, as the old woman 
reached the door. 

“ Good morning, Sister,” was the reply. “ I wish my eyes 
weren’t so bad, till I’d give you a hand at the mending. ’Twas I 
was fine at the needle once, but that’s a long time ago. I’m good 
for nothing now but peeling the vegetables and sayin’ my prayers.” 

“ And giving every one a cheery word,” said Sister Beatrice, 
with a smile. “ That counts for a great deal, Catharine. Sit 
there on the step and rest yourself.” 

The old woman sat down. She wore a coarse black gown, but 
her long gingham apron and the white silk handkerchief about 
her neck were scrupulously clean. Softly waving silver locks 
framed a sweet, restful face, that must once have been very 
beautiful. 

“ That is a curious crucifix you have there, Catharine,” re- 
marked the nun. “ Perhaps it belonged to your mother ? ” 

“ Ho, Sister, but to his” 

“ His ? I thought you were never married ? ” 

“ Nor was I, Sister. Catharine Blake I was bom, and 
Catharine Blake I’ll die. But there was a boy I liked once, and 

127 


128 


THE LAST TRYST . 


he gave it to me when he left home. ’Twas on account of him 
I came to America.” 

“ And why didn’t you marry him, Catharine ? ” 

“ Sure, I never found him. My people wouldn’t have me 
speak to him, if they could help it. He was shiftless, they said — 
and maybe he was. But he had a kind heart, and he was fond 
of me. He was a great singer, and he played the fiddle fine, and 
a better-lookin’ boy there was not in the whole barony.” 

“ And you came to America looking for him ? That was not 
very wise, Catharine.” 

“ He sent me the address of the place where he lived. I 
waited seven months till I earned money enough. I was at serv- 
ice with a farmer. When I had the money in hand I came.” 

“ Without telling your people ? ” 

“ Without telling my people. My mother was dead long since, 
my brothers and sisters all married. And when I came to New 
York he was gone — And I never found him.” 

“That was some time ago, Catharine?” said the Sister, 
glancing at the withered hands closed about the silver crucifix 
in the old woman’s lap. 

“ Nearly fifty years — no less. But there’s never a day since he 
gave me the cross that I did not say my beads for him. I worked 
an’ I worked, I went here an’ I went there, but I never found him. 
There was a great tale of gold in California in early days, and I 
came out, thinking maybe I’d meet him. But I never did, Sis- 
ter dear, I never did. Blessed be the holy will of God ! ” 
***** 

It was a strange little procession — inaugurating the Forty 
Hours. Four of the least decrepit among the old men carried 
the canopy, while such of their companions as were able fol- 
lowed. Behind them came the old women, then the Sisters, 
chanting the Pange Lingua. 

Suddenly from among the group of men a voice chimed in — 
feeble at first, but swelling in volume as it gained courage. A 
flutter ran through the whole length of the procession. 

Some of the men looked at one another with a surprised and 


MARY E. MANNIX. 


129 


disapproving shake of the head; many of the women pressed 
their lips together, hardly able to restrain a smile. Catharine 
Blake walked at the end with her friend and comrade, Bridget 
Miles. 

“ God bless me ! ” whispered Bridget. “ What old man is 
that? ’Twas a fine voice once, though, Catharine.” 

Catharine put her fingers to her lips, and made no sound. 
But there were tears in the faded blue eyes, and the hands that 
wrapped themselves about the silver crucifix trembled as with palsy. 

It was late in the afternoon before the old woman could 
waylay Sister Beatrice, for whom she had been watching. At 
last she saw her coming out of the chapel, where she herself had 
spent the greater part of the day. 

“ Sister dear,” she asked, “ can you tell me the name of that 
man who joined in the singin’ this mornin’? Is he here a long 
time ? ” 

“ His name is Arthur Donahue,” said Sister Beatrice. “ He 
is a newcomer — very feeble, but begged to be allowed to walk 
in the procession to-day. He meant no harm, poor man, and 
his voice is remarkably good for a person of his age.” 

“ That is so. Sister,” Catharine replied, in a low tone. “ But 
years ago it couldn’t be beat in all Ireland. That’s the boy I 
told ye of, Sister dear.” 

“You are sure, Catharine?” 

“ Am I sure of my own name ? Yes, Sister ; that’s the boy, 
I seen him. His hair is white now, and his face old, but it would 
take more changes than them for me not to know Arthur when I 
cast my eyes on him. Would you ask the good Mother could I 
see him, Sister? If he knew, he’d be just as glad as me, I’m 
sure.” 

“ I will, I will, Catharine,” answered Sister Beatrice cheerily. 
“To-morrow morning we’ll arrange it — and I’m certain, as you 
say, he will be as glad as yourself. What a strange, strange hap- 
pening that you should find each other here, after all these 
years ! 99 

* * * * f 


130 


THE LAST TRYST. 


The old women were leaving the refectory next morning 
when Sister Beatrice again sought Catharine Blake. Taking 
her by the hand, she led her into the garden. 

“ Catharine/’ she said, “ I have something to tell you.” 

“ Yes, Sister,” replied the old woman, with trembling lips. 

“ You were right. He is the man you knew. Last night he 
was suddenly stricken and is now dying. It is paralysis. At 
first his mind wandered, and he called your name. Later he 
came to his senses and has already received the sacraments. I 
will take you to him.” 

Catharine did not speak. Side by side the two women entered 
the infirmary, where the old man lay dying. In a moment 
Catharine was leaning over him. 

“ Do you know me, Arthur ? ” she asked, wiping the tears 
from her cheeks with one old shriveled hand, while the other 
rested on his outside the coverlet. 

“ Sure I do, Cathie,” he said, quite calmly. “ But where 
are your brown locks ? ” 

“ Gone with yours, Arthur,” she answered, smiling through 
her tears. 

“And where were you all the time?” 

“ Looking for you mostly, till I came to this good place.” 

“ And I thought you went back on me ! I thought it — God 
forgive me, Cathie. I — I was very bitter once — but I never 
married.” 

“ You were not in Yew York at the place you told me, and 
no one knew where you’d gone, Arthur.” 

“ I waited nigh seven months without tale or tidings.” 

“’Twas my fault, Arthur. I should have come when you 
told me.” 

“ Yo; but mine. I was too hot-headed, and a rover always— 
always from the day I was born.” 

“ I knew your voice in the chapel yesterday.” 

“An’ did you? Well, well. ’Twas a crazy thing to do, 
Cathie, but I couldn’t help it. I had to sing out as I used to 
at home.” 


MART E. MANNIX. 


131 


“ ? Twas God did it, Arthur. Praise and thanks be to His 
holy name. After all our wanderin’s we’re together at last.” 

“ Will you let her stay near me, Sister? 99 asked the old man, 
with a wan smile, as he softly patted Catharine’s hand. 

“ As long as she likes,” said the Sister. “ All day if she 
wishes.” 

“ Then I’ll never leave him. Sister dear,” said Catharine, 
drawing a chair to the bedside. 

Sister Beatrice went away. 

“Do you mind this, Arthur?” asked Catharine, after a 
moment. 

He lifted his eyes, and feebly extended his hand, chill with 
the touch of death. The fingers closed about the crucifix — he 
pressed it to his lips. 

“ My mother’s cross ! Oh, Cathie,” he murmured, “ yours 
was the brave, true heart, acushla, the loving heart — ” 

After that he spoke no more. People came and went, but 
Catharine neither saw nor heard them. Till the last fluttering 
breath faded away into silence she sat, her hand on his, the 
crucifix between them, token of a lifelong human love, emblem 
of the love everlasting that was soon to encompass him ; her quest 
forever done, her patience rewarded, faithful to the end. 



A STRANGE WEDDING. 

BY MARY G. BONESTEEL. 

It was June, 1794, in Paris: June, the month of sunshine and 
roses, but the sun shone upon such scenes of incredible atrocities 
that even the sweet June roses smelled of blood. There was 
blood everywhere, the “ Holy Guillotine,” which the infamous 
chiefs of the Commune had set up in the place of the crucifix 
they had torn down, dripping with the blood of the noblest men 
and women of France. 

That mockery of justice, the Revolutionary Tribunal, was 
kept busy in furnishing victims for the daily tragedy of the 
guillotine, demanded by the Sans Culottes, the vilest rabble of 
Paris. 

The dungeons of Paris were emptied only to make room for 
fresh victims. The churches were closed; only the prisons of the 
great city were open, wide open. 

In one of the smaller of these vile and loathsome dungeons, 
situated not far from the Church of Notre Dame itself — from 
whose altar the spotless Virgin had been torn down and in whose 
place a notorious woman of the city had been set up, with un- 
speakable blasphemies, as the Goddess of Reason, to receive the 
worship of the blood-maddened populace— that a gay and gallant 
group of men and women were gathered on that 25th of June 
to witness — of all things — a wedding! 

It was a curious and motley company, but upon them all was 
the unmistakable and fatal sign of “ aristocrat.” The Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal was swift in its processes; its prisoners were 
seized at all hours of the day and night; no time was given 
them to change their garments for some more suitable for a 
prison. When the beautiful young Countess DTIarcourt asked 

133 


134 


A STRANGE WEDDING. 


for a shawl to cover her bare neck, she was told, with brutal 
laughter, that it was not necessary — that it would make La Guil- 
lotine’s work the easier. The countess formed one of the strange 
group gathered that June morning to witness the marriage of 
the Citizeness D’Artanyon, only child of the Citizeness D’Ar- 
tanyon, sometimes called the Marquise D’Artanyon, to the Citi- 
zen La Fourre, commonly known as the Count La Fourre — 
himself a prisoner in the dungeon of La Tour, as well as Madame 
D’Artanyon, mother of the bride. 

And how came a wedding amid the ghastly scenes of the 
Reign of Terror? 

The Citizen Belot, in charge of the prison of La Tour, had 
from his boyhood lived on one of the estates of Madame D’Ar- 
tanyon, and at the time of the breaking out of the Revolution 
had been factor of the estate whose grounds adjoined those of 
the young Count La Fourre. On this estate stood the beautiful 
chateau of D’Artanyon, which for two centuries had been the 
summer home of the family, as the castle on the adjoining estate 
had been that of the La Fourres. 

Rene La Fourre was the sole descendant of his ancient and 
honorable name, while Marie D’Artanyon was the only daughter 
of her race ; from the time they were babies their betrothal had 
been planned by both families, and their wedding looked forward 
to as the joining of two of the most ancient families of the aris- 
tocracy, and of their vast estates as well. 

The two children had grown up together in the peace and 
security of their country homes, Belot, the factor, their greatest 
friend. The events of the Revolution moved swiftly, however, 
and Belot, being an ardent patriot, had given himself heart and 
soul to the cause of the Revolutionists, and had risen from one 
position of trust to another, until he was placed in charge of the 
small bastile of La Tour. Hardened as he had become to the 
daily scenes of carnage, the man was horror-stricken to find one 
day among a new batch of “ aristocrat ” victims his former mis- 
tress, Madame La Marquise D’Artanyon, and Monsieur Rene, 
mademoiselle’s fiance. 


MARY G. BONESTEEL. 


135 


Old memories and affections revived at the sight of them, and 
the wretched man did what little he could to mitigate their sad 
lot. Madame had been brought before the Tribunal on the sole 
charge of being an aristocrat, to which she had proudly pleaded 
“ guilty.” Whereupon a bystander had struck her gray head, cry- 
ing, “ Down with the aristocrats ! ” Rene, who had accompanied 
the marquise to this infamous court, threw the ruffian to the 
ground. He was instantly arrested on the charge of sympa- 
thizing with and encouraging the nobles. The same rough, open 
cart took them both to prison that same day. 

All that day the young girl Marie awaited the return of her 
mother in the small bare room which they occupied together in 
an obscure part of the city. The better to conceal their identity 
and provide a scanty living, both ladies plied the trade of making 
wax flowers, calling themselves plain Artan. A former servant 
who had been discharged from madame’s service for dishonesty 
discovered their retreat, and at once reported them to the Com- 
mune. 

Rene La Fourre had taken a room near by, so that he might 
watch over and protect his betrothed and her mother; he, too, 
worked at a trade, making hand-carved cabinets. For almost a 
year the three devoted friends had led a peaceful life, safe in 
the midst of a reign of terror which carried daily to the in- 
satiable maws of the guillotine their lifelong friends and 
relatives. 

So secure did they feel that madame had at last consented to 
the union of the two young people. The day was set, the 25th of 
June, and a young priest who was in hiding not far from where 
they lived, an old schoolmate and friend of Rene’s, was to per- 
form the ceremony. And then had come the sudden visit of 
the officers of the law, madame was seized and hurried roughly to 
the open cart in which the prisoners were made to ride, so that 
the rabble might see and gloat over their misfortune; Rene ac- 
companied madame only as a great favor and by slipping a gold 
piece into the hand of the officer in charge. 

“ Courage, Marie, we shall soon return,” he called to the 


136 


A STRANGE WEDDING. 


young girl. But the day passed and the night, and the next, and 
still they did not return. Then the young girl, with the courage 
of her race, set out alone to find them. 

Alone in Paris, alone in that city of crime and horrors un- 
speakable, whose gutters ran deep with the blood of the good 
and innocent, Marie decided to become a flower-girl, so that in 
.selling her wares she might come and go unsuspected. Before 
long she traced her mother and lover to their prison, and great 
was the joy of the young girl when she found Belot in charge. 

Marie’s innocent confidence and faith in Belot’s good-will to 
help them softened the man’s heart completely, and it was he 
who had determined that Marie should he married upon the 
wedding-day chosen. He allowed the flower-girl to sell her wares 
to the prisoners, and so well was the secret kept among the little 
company of victims that no one in the prison suspected the young 
girl to be anything but what she pretended to be, a flower-girl 
from the Rue Sabot; thus were they enabled to perfect their 
plans. 

Among the prisoners was the young Abbe Maurepas, a nephew 
of the great statesman, and he was to marry Marie and Rene in 
the outside corridor of La Tour, while Belot was to see that they 
were uninterrupted for a few moments. The hour chosen was 
an early one, when all the employees and most of the prison 
guards were at breakfast. 

The prison clock was striking five when Marie appeared be- 
fore the great iron gates of La Tour. Belot himself opened them 
to the little bride, who stood there, sweet and trembling, in a gown 
of simple white, with a bunch of white jasmine in her hair. 
There was a strange look about the young girl which puzzled 
Belot — a look of holy exaltation. Her lips moved as if in con- 
stant prayer, and she carried in her hands, clasped to her breast, 
a white ivory missal. 

“ She looks as if she had just made her first communion,” 
thought Belot, with tender recollections of his own youthful days 
of innocence. 

Marie found the group of prisoners assembled to meet her 


MARY G. BONESTEEL. 


137 


before the tall iron railing of the outside corridor where the pris- 
oners took their exercise. A covered table stood there, with pen, 
ink, and paper for the signing of the marriage contract. With- 
out a word Marie went straight to the young Abbe, who was 
standing somewhat apart; she said something to him in a low 
tone, then handing the ivory missal to him, knelt in an attitude of 
reverent devotion. 

The tears were streaming down the young priest’s face, and 
his voice was choked with sobs as he turned to tell his fellow 
prisoner of the Guest whom little Marie had brought to the wed- 
ding-feast. Rene’s friend, the priest who was to have married 
them, had confided to Marie the ivory missal, which was hollow 
and contained a pyx, in which consecrated Hosts had been placed 
so that the prisoners of La Tour might receive the Bread of life 
oefore they died. 

With a cry of amazed joy the little group of aristocrats fell 
upon their knees, to adore their Lord and God; the men with 
bared heads, the women with tears of emotion streaming un- 
heeded down their cheeks. They did not dare remain kneeling 
to make their confession, but taking them in turn the Abbe heard 
them as they paced to and fro up and down the long prison 
corridor. 

Old, hardened men of the world who had not received their 
Lord since the days of their childhood w r ere prepared now to 
receive Him for the last time. It was a strange and thrilling scene, 
the Lord of heaven and earth a prisoner among prisoners. 

When the last of the little company had received what for 
most of them proved to be their Holy Viaticum before nightfall, 
a deep feeling of awe and peace stole over them. The silence 
was suddenly broken by the low tones of the priest beginning the 
marriage ceremony. It was soon over, and Marie and Rene had 
been pronounced man and wife; Marie was signing her name to 
the marriage contract, the young Abbe showing her where to 
write, while Rene gazed lovingly on, when suddenly the great 
iron gate was thrown violently open and the sub-chief of the 
Commune appeared with his list of victims for La Guillotine. 


m 


A STRANGE WEDDING. 


“ Get ready, you ! ” he cried, roughly. “ Your carriage awaits 
you to convey you to the feast.” Then he proceeded to read the 
names selected for that day’s slaughter. 

The Citizen Maurepas, Citizeness D’Harcourt, were the two 
first; Marie, half-fainting with suspense, waited until the dread 
list was finished. Thank God! her own were spared this time. 

That very week Belot arranged for the escape of madame and 
Bene, and conveyed them in safety to an American sailing-vessel, 
which carried the emigres to the shores of the Yew World. 

Under Yapoleon their estates, which had been confiscated, 
were partially restored to them. Madame returned to her be- 
loved France, where she still had a son living, but Bene and 
Marie decided to make the new republic their home, Bene re- 
ceiving a huge grant of land near the beautiful waters of Lake 
Champlain for his estate in France. And here to-day lives their 
great-great-grandson. 

Hanging in the great entrance-hall is a picture painted by the 
foremost artist of that day, called “ The Marriage Contract,” and 
the fair young daughter of the house, Marie, called after her 
illustrious ancestress, loves to tell the tale of that strange wed- 
ding in the prison of La Tour, to which Our Lord came as 
Guest, even as He did at Cana two thousand years ago. 


MRS. MAJOR’S STRATAGEM. 

BY MARY G. BONESTEEL. 

Billy Sanford, first lieutenant of “ B ” Troop, Sixteenth 
Cavalry, was engaged to the sweetest girl in the world, who was 
faithfully waiting m a small Connecticut village, sure that her be- 
loved was winning honors and distinction in far distant Luzon. 

At least they considered themselves engaged, though Polly’s 
father, a stern old gentleman, would not give his consent until 
Billy had cleared up certain reports and given a promise which 
paterfamilias exacted. 

Billy’s reputation at poker was second to none, and in a cavalry 
regiment this means distinction, so that unavoidable, daring ac- 
counts of the young man’s prowess had reached the old gentle- 
man’s ears. 

“ But I do not gamble, sir ; for I never play for more than I 
can afford,” the young officer protested indignantly. 

“ Humph ! What insurance do you carry ? ” 

And Billy, somewhat crestfallen and nonplussed at the sudden 
change of attack, replied candidly: “None, sir,” and here it 
rested. 

Both men remained sulky and obstinate, though each called 
it “ being firm on a matter of principle,” while the sweetest girl 
in the world shed many midnight tears, and suffered patiently. 

Billy would not give his promise to the old gentleman not to 
play for money, because, as he explained to Polly, “ It would be 
admitting that I am a gambler, also it is an infringement upon 
my personal liberty.” 

“You’ll never have my permission to marry Polly without 
that promise, young man,” the old gentleman swore wrathfully, 
“and sheTl never marry you without that permission.” 

139 


140 


MRS. MAJOR'S STRATAGEM. 


“ Very good, sir,” retorted Billy, in his curt, military manner, 
"go- on being pig-headed and obstinate and break our hearts. I 
will not make that absurd promise.” 

Just then the quarrel was cut short by a telegram from Billy’s 

colonel, saying the steenth had received hurry orders for 

the Philippines. 

“ But, Billy, you have not half recovered .from the fever you 
got at Santiago,” his little sweetheart protested. 

“ Nonsense, dear ! I am as fit as can be,” and the young fellow 
stretched his long, gaunt form, which showed Cuban malaria in 
every line. But he was of the sort that would far rather die than 
let his regiment go into active service without him, so long as he 
could stand. 

He gave Polly a promise before he left “ not to play poker 
more than once a week.” 

“ And I’m just as much engaged to you, Billy, as I possibly 
can be,” Polly weepingly insisted. 

She was such a doleful little object that her father felt called 
upon to explain and justify his position. 

“ It’s not that I really think the boy a gambler, my dear, or 
that I think more of my own way than of your happiness, but it 
is a matter of principle with me, that my daughter shall not marry 
a man whc plays cards for money.” 

* * * * * 

Billy’s troop was quartered at Santa Anna, a few miles out 

from Manila, on the banks of the Pasig. The town was a busy 
one, with two highways of commerce: the river, with its never 
ceasing flow of rice and hemp-laden cascoes, government launches, 
carrying troops and supplies to the army operating north, the 
other the main road, a much traveled but wretchedly kept thor- 
oughfare from Calamba and the Laguna de Bay district, to 
Manila. 

Besides the legitimate traffic there was a flourishing illegal 
one in ammunition for the insurgents, and vino, the vile native 
rum, for the American soldiers. Billy, now in command of “ B ” 
troop, was kept busy “ hiking ” from morning until night, trying 


MARY a . BONESTEEL. 


141 


to break up the smuggling. No time for poker or any other 
amusement ; it was all hard work these days, for he was the only 
officer with the troop. 

Just as Billy and his men were about played out with their 
daily hikes in the rainy season, the Third Battalion was ordered up 
to Santa Anna, and with it came Mrs. Major. 

Billy had known her ever since he could remember. His 
father and the Major had served in the same regiment for twenty- 
five years out in Arizona and Colorado. 

A lump came into the poor, homesick boy’s throat as he read 
her gay, cordial, little letter, telling him she was coming, and 
please to find her a house. 

The “ bungalow ” which had been the residence of the Spanish 
governor of the province was secured, and Billy set to work with 
a force of natives and soldier prisoners to make it not only hab- 
itable, but comfortable and pretty. The furniture Avas begged, 
borrowed, and, I am afraid, “ looted.” The result, however, was 
charming, and so Mrs. Major thought when she arrived, worn 
out after her long, hot, dusty drive. 

“ Billy, how can I ever repay you, you dear boy ! ” she ex- 
claimed. 

“ Knock some sense into the head of that old curmudgeon at 
home, so that Polly can come out to me,” said Billy, with a some- 
what doleful smile. 

Mrs.. Major knew all about Billy’s love affair. However, she 
only laughed, but she thought to herself, “ There is a young 
goose near at hand that needs sense knocked into him, I’m think- 
ing.” 

With the coming of Mrs. Major life at Santa Anna became 
more bearable; she was a bit of civilization in herself. Blue 
shirts and faded khaki no longer passed muster at mess, not 
even at tiffin, the most informal meal of the day. Then Mrs. 
Major instituted Sunday dinner. It brought the tears to the 
eyes of those home-sick fellows when they sat down at a table 
set with a table-cloth, napkins, silver, and china, while Sam Sing, 
the Chino cook who had learned to cook in Portland, Ore., brought 


142 


MRS. MAJOR'S STRATAGEM. 


in fried chicken, tomatoes with mayonnaise, and finally peach 
ice cream. 

Billy found only one thing detrimental in the coming of the 
Third Battalion. With it came a genial little poker crowd, and 
almost before he knew it, poor Billy had capitulated, and played 
regularly every Saturday night, sticking manfully to his promise, 
however, not to play more than once a week. 

When Mrs. Major found that Billy was spending his Sat- 
urday evenings with the junior mess she taxed him with having 
yielded to temptation. 

"Well, a fellow must have some amusement,” he urged. "I 
promised Polly that I wouldn’t play more than once a week, and 
I don’t. And I never play for more than I can afford. I’m 
always ’way ahead, too. You can’t lose much with a ten-cent 
limit.” 

“ Oh, yes, my boy. I’ve heard all that before. How much 
did you win Saturday night ? ” 

“ A hundred ‘ Mex,’ ” was the nonchalant reply. 

" A neat sum, Billy, for a ten-cent limit.” 

She was an old army woman and knew her poker. Billy 
flushed, and there was a perceptible pause -in the conversation. 

Suddenly Mrs. Major’s eyes twinkled. A long line of peculiar- 
shaped little white garments, flapping in the wind from a near-by 
nipa house, had given her a sudden inspiration as she eyed the 
ten five dollar gold pieces the young officer jingled in the palm 
of his hand. 

“ Billy, I’ll wager anything you like you won’t have a single 
one of those this day week at tiffin.” 

“ Mrs. Major, you horrify me. I thought nothing would ever 
induce you to gamble.” 

"Ordinarily nothing would, young man, but there are ex- 
ceptions to all rules, and this is one.” 

“ What will you bet, madam ? I’ll give you big odds.” 

Mrs. Major thought a moment. Then she said : “ Here’s 

my wager, Billy. A week from to-day — this is Wednesday— you 
must have these identical gold pieces to show me at tiffin; if 


MARY G. BONESTEEL. 


143 


you lose and have spent them, you give me your promise not to 
play a game of cards for money for two years. If I lose, I give 
you a hundred of the best Manila cigars to be had.” 

“ I take you, madam. Order my cigars at once, please. This 
is a dead easy proposition,” was the gay reply. 

Rapidly the week rolled around. Saturday evening the junior 
mess had in vain urged Billy to join in the usual little game. 

“ I have my reasons, fellows,” was all he would say, “ but 
I’ll play you double next week.” 

At seven o’clock the following Wednesday morning, just as 
Billy, fresh from his morning shower bath, in cool, pale-blue silk 
pajamas, was sitting down to his early breakfast of fruit, coffee, 
and toast, feeling at peace with the world, his “ muchacho ” 
handed him a note from Mrs. Major. 

“ Dear Billy,” it read. “ The Senora Pacita Mendez has 
asked me to request you to stand godfather for her son and heir. 
Her husband would have waited upon you in person, but he was 
suddenly called away. 

“ But they will deem it a great honor if the Senor Lieutenant 
will do them this favor, etc. And really, Billy, you can’t in de- 
cency refuse. Mass will be at eight. I will stop for you on my 
way to church,” concluded Mrs. Major. 

Billy groaned in spirit. No ; he couldn’t refuse. The Senora 
was the most prominent Filipino lady in the town, young and 
pretty, too. He wrote a hasty acceptance to Mrs. Major, finished 
his breakfast somewhat gloomily, then, with the aid of his boy 
and several emphatic words, he got himself into a fresh suit 
of white duck, just in time to join Mrs. Major on her way to 
the church. 

The street was filled with little family groups, the center of 
each being a tiny brown Filipino baby surrounded by admiring 
relatives. The two soon found themselves one with the pro- 
cession, all hurrying to the church. 

The babies were arrayed in the most gorgeous baptismal robes 
of sheerest lawn, trimmed with quantities of real lace. Mrs. 
Major simply raved over them, but Billy was not responsive. 


144 


MRS. MAJOR’S STRATAGEM . 


Wednesday in the Philippines is the universal christening day. 
If the sun shines the children are brought from far and near 
to every barrio which possesses a church, and the whole place 
assumes the air of a “ fiesta.” The gorgeous robes which the little 
things wear, however, are only hired for the occasion, and as 
soon as the ceremonies are over they are returned to the owners, 
who immediately wash them and hang them out to dry, ready for 
renting the next week. 

It was the knowledge of this curious custom of a regular 
christening day that had suggested to Mrs. Major her little 
stratagem. 

All during the Mass the babies wailed and poor Billy got 
more and more nervous. As soon as it was over Mrs. Major 
beckoned the young man to join the christening party at the 
baptistry, just inside the door on the left hand side. 

The old Padre was very dexterous, from long practise, and 
the ceremonies were soon finished, with only a mild protest from 
the tiny Filipino. There was great handshaking and congratulat- 
ing among the elders, during which Mrs. Major presented her god- 
son with an elaborate silver cup. Then she looked at Billy, as 
if expecting him to do likewise. Poor fellow ! He looked perfectly 
blank and flushed scarlet with shame and vexation. 

“ Billy,” whispered Mrs. Major, “ you surely havenT forgotten 
a christening gift ? ” 

“What shall I do?” he replied, in an agonized tone of en- 
treaty. 

Mrs. Major turned her back on him; her strategy was working 
so perfectly that she was afraid her face would give her away. 
She appeared to think deeply, then said : 

“ Have you a gold piece with you ? ” 

“Yes; plenty of them,” eagerly. 

“ Give Grandmamma Mendez one, wishing it may bring good 
luck to the baby.” 

Immensely relieved, Billy made his gift with smiling face ; it 
was enthusiastically received. Just then the Padre approached 
and begged that the gracious Senora and the most honorable and 


MARY G. BONESTEEL. 


145 


generous Senor Lieutenant would stand for some of his poorer 
children. 

There was much good-humored laughing and exclaiming 
among the humbler natives who stood waiting their turn. Billy 
had not noticed Mrs. Major speaking aside with the good Padre, 
or he might have suspected her evil designs. 

“ Oh, I say, Mrs. Major! ” he protested now. “I can’t god- 
father all those kids. Do help me out of this mess.* 

“ The quickest way out of it is to accept,” she replied, calmly, 
and before he knew it the young officer was renouncing “ Satan 
and all his pomps and works ” for a bewilderingly rapid suc- 
cession of brown atoms. 

When it was all over Mrs. Major whispered : “ I haven’t 

a penny, and we must make them a gift. Give each mamma a 
gold piece. I will go halves and settle with you later.” 

Only too relieved with this easy way out of an embarrassing 
situation, Billy delivered up the last of his poker winnings with 
a kindly smile and speech to each small godchild, absolutely with- 
out thought as to future consequences. 

Billy was a bit late for tiffin that day. The Third Battalion tif- 
fined and dined at a general mess. Mrs. Major greeted him with a 
gay “ This is our day of settlement, young man.” 

“ I hope you are prepared to pay up, Billy,” interrupted the 
Major, “ I’ve never yet won a bet from my wife. Show up your 
poker money.” 

Billy gave a little gasp. 

“Why — why,” he stammered, “I gave it to you this morning 
for those beastly kids.” 

“ A bet is a bet. No more poker. Master Billy,” was all the 
satisfaction he got. 

The young officer’s face was a study as he saw how cleverly he 
had been outwitted. There was a roar of laughter from the mess. 
“ It’s on you, Billy ; set ’em up, set ’em up.” Which the young 
man proceeded to do — in ginger ale, for Mrs. Major was strictly 
temperance. 

After tiffin Mrs. Major took the young fellow to one side. 


146 


MRS. MAJOR'S STRATAGEM. 


“ Billy, Polly’s sister sails on the Buford from New York next 
month; her husband is in the Thirty-first Infant^, you know. 
Cable the old gentleman your promise, and ask Polly to come out. 
She will.” 

She did, and they had the prettiest sort of an army wedding 
in Manila some three months later. 

One of the gifts of the bride’s was a check for fifty dollars, 
inclosed in a note which read : 

“Have spent the original, but this represents my last poker 
winnings. Have sworn off forever. 


Billy.” 


A LUCKY LOSS. 


BY EUGENIE UHLRICH. 

We had been telling queer and mysterious experiences, and now 
it was Rowland’s turn. He was a civil and mechanical engineer, 
who had traveled far and wide, and was noted for his tales, so we 
ostentatiously moved our chairs closer, and our hostess turned the 
lights lower. 

Rowland, laughing, said: 

It is not so bad as that. But this has always seemed to 
me to be the case, that the most mysterious things are the sim- 
plest when one comes to find the solution, their very simplicity 
making them obscure. When I went to college from my 
father’s farm, my allowance was hardly enough to cover necessi- 
ties, so I had little chance to acquire fashionable or expensive ex- 
periences. Perhaps I got through all the sooner. When the end 
of my college course approached, the least of my troubles was the 
class badge. So, when the jeweler’s agent called to get our orders, 
I went down absent-mindedly, looked at the design, and had no 
particular conception of it beyond that it was red and white, the 
college colors. He asked me some questions about what setting 
I preferred, and a ruby was the only red stone of which I could 
think. Then he asked me something about the number of stones, 
and I, probably with an idea of saving time and money, or, more 
probably still, with no idea at all, answered, “ One will do.” 

“ One ! ” he repeated, and looked me over rather sharply ; but 
I happened to have on my one good suit because my other one 
had to be sent up for repairs, so perhaps he took me to be one of the 
nabobs. 


147 


148 


A LUCKY L0& S. 


“ Yes,” I answered. And I thought, “ How many does he 
think I can put in?” But I did not ask that. Wish I had. 

A few days later I was sent for to see a gentleman from the 
city. He explained, in such persuasively apologetic tones that 
they still remain in mind as models of that style of conversation, 
that there was only one ruby large enough to fill my order in the 
City of New York. It was in the hands of a French family much 
reduced in circumstances, and his firm had meant to buy it for me. 
But the family found that it had mysteriously and completely 
disappeared from its keeping-place, with absolutely no clew as to 
how or when or through whom. There was another ruby of the 
right size and color known to be in the possession of the Chester 
family of England, and they might sell it, because they, too, had 
suffered severe losses of late. But it would be a delicate bargain 
to negotiate, a special agent would have to be sent on the next 
steamer to get it here in time, and the transaction would cost about 
forty thousand dollars. Well, I suppose in these days, when mil- 
lionaires’ sons go to college, such things are possible. But, oh, 
picture my feelings ! My legs shook so I could hardly stand up. 
Forty thousand dollars! Forty thousand cents was an extrava- 
gant fortune to me at that time. I managed to say something 
about some other design, with my mouth almost stiff with fright 
at the thought of what might have happened to me in my monu- 
mental ignorance. 

“ Just plain enamel,” I added, fortunately having caught that 
phrase from one of the fellows, also hard up, just a few minutes 
before. 

The agent’s blandness seemed to harden into something like 
haughtiness, and he left me very quickly then. I sat down, 
and wiped my face, and tried to thank heaven for my escape 
from having to spend the rest of my life paying for my class 
badge, and not being sure at that if I could hope to die out of 
debt. 

I came to the city immediately after graduating, and, thanks 
to my uncle, at once got a good opening. After several dissatis- 
fied changes in boarding-houses, I was told of a place out of the 


EUGENIE UHLRICH. 


149 


ordinary kept by an old French lady. I had learned a little since 
spring. The ruby probably opened my eyes. So, while I sat in the 
parlor, I noticed the rare bric-a-brac, the bits of antique furniture, 
and a portrait of a beautiful French girl in the style of forty years 
ago, and the reduced French family and their stone kept running 
? in my mind. The gentlest of rustlings stirred the air, and I 
turned, to see a soft-haired old lady in a plain black silk dress 
and a lace cap. I remember hearing of a man who wanted a wife 
who would be a beautiful old woman. And, indeed, it is the 
beauty of old age before which we must bow the lowest. Time 
takes away alike the charms and the defects of the flesh, and 
leaves the sublime spirit to shine through, if the spirit is sublime ; 
and if it is not, well, then there is no ugliness like an ugly old 
age. I arose to my feet, and wished that the times when it was 
proper for a man to sink on his knee and kiss the hand of a lady 
were not past. Of course, I stayed. She could not have driven 
me away. 

There was a maid at the house w r ho had shared the luck of the 
family for many years, though she still preserved a pert and trim 
manner and a loose-hung tongue. I confess to giving her tacit 
encouragement to talk, for the lot of Madame Le Gendre appealed 
to me, not from mere curiosity, but sympathy. One rainy Sunday 
morning, when I could not go out, she was “ doing up my room,” 
as she called it. The papers that morning were full of a famous 
diamond robbery. 

“ It’s the queerest thing,” she said, “ how things do happen, 
* and the queerest are those that are never found out. Now, nobody 
ever made a fuss about our great ruby, and I’m sure it was worth 
more than that whole lot of diamonds put together.” 

“What about it?” I said, indifferently as possible, though 
great rubies had acquired a certain personal and exciting interest 
for me. 

“ Well, you know — ” she said, “ and don’t you ever let on to 
madame that I told, but then you don’t seem like the rest of the 
boarders, you’re more like one of us — madame thought, last spring, 
she would have to sell the Le Gendre ruby, at last. But then the 


150 


A LZMJKY LOSS. 


city bought for a park that little land she had left, and that helped 
us out.” 

“ But what about the ruby? ” I said. One had to keep calling 
Nancy back to her topic, if one ever wanted to get the end of her 
stories. You will observe that her name was Nancy, and that she 
was also a Celt, but from another side of the Channel than 
madame. 

“ Well,” Nancy continued, “ no one knew where madame kept 
the ruby, not even Mis’ Henriette nor me. Didn’t we all feel bad ? 
Mis’ Henriette — little Henry’s mother, you know — just got sick. 
But old madame never said a word, not even when she first found 
out that it was gone. She went to the casket, and took out the 
hand magnifying-glass, and kind of looked at the casket. Maybe, 
thinking that she was going to sell the ruby anyhow, she did not 
mind me being behind her and watching her. She put her hand 
down on one of the little curls near a corner, and then another lid 
flew open. 

“ c Oh,’ she said, as if it hurt her, ‘ it ees not zere ! Nancee,’ 
you know how she talks, ‘ call Mis’ Henriette ! ’ 

“ It came out then that she kept that ruby all the time in that 
box with the double bottom. But how did it get away, when no 
one ever knew where it was, and nobody left in the family to spend 
money, like Mis’ Henriette’s husband used to do, and no one but 
the family ever going into madame’s room ? ” 

“ No one else ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, there was that Katy who used to mind little Henry and 
dust the halls. She used to sit in there with the child sometimes, 
but she was that stupid we had to send her away just the day be- 
fore. She couldn’t have told the Le Gendre ruby from a piece 
of red glass.” 

There were others, I thought, not unlike Katy in that respect 
at least, and that stupidity gave me an idea. 

“ Did madame ever let little Henry play with that box ? ” 

“ Of course not,” said Nancy. 

Now, you see, I am the oldest of ten children, and I ought to 
know something about the way children act. 


ETJaENIE VHLRICH. 


151 


“ Do you think Katy might have let him play with the box ? ” 

“ Oh, there’s no telling what she might have done, she was 
that stupid/’ said Nancy, with her most self-righteous air. 

“ Do you know where Katy lives ? ” 

“ No/’ she said ; “ I don’t even know her name. It was the 
washerwoman’s daughter brought her here. Though she was tell- 
ing me that her mother and father were dead, and so she came 
over to this country all alone, and her aunt was that mean to 
her—” 

“ Where does the washerwoman live ? ” 

Nancy brought herself back to the subject with an aggrieved 

air. 

“ Well, now,” she said, “the coo^ can tell. I don’t have 
nothing to do with her myself.” 

And so after many inquiries Katy was arrived at. 

Yes, she did know the box. She did let Henry play with it 
when madame was gone. He didn’t seem to do it any hurt, and 
he liked it so. Did the second lid ever open? Yes; one morn- 
ing, the bottom seemed to come up in the queerest way. Was 
there anything under it? Nothing but a bit of red glass out of a 
belt buckle, or something like that. Henry wanted it, and she let 
him play with it. Then he dropped it behind the couch. She 
couldn’t find it, and gave him some candy so he’d forget about it. 
She did not tell madame, because she did not want her to know 
that Henry had the box when madame did not want him to have it. 

0 sancta simplicitas, there was a pair of us ! 

1 went home with my heart thumping so that it seemed too 
big for my vest. What if they had cleaned house since then? 
Finally I decided to tell Nancy. The next morning, after a long, 
long night, while madame was out for her marketing and for 
early Mass, and Mrs. Henriette down in the dining-room, Nancy 
and I searched and searched, I murmuring prayers mixed with 
imprecations against Nancy’s tireless tongue, keeping up its 
ceaseless lamentations and guesses. At last, there it was — there 
it was, stuck so tight in a crack that it was almost out of sight ! 

When madame came, and between us we managed to tell her, 


15*2 A LUCKY LOSS. 

she turned a little whiter, and her hands shook as she laid them 
on my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. 

“ Merci, merci ! ” she said. “ It will be for Henri.” 

But I have a blessing of my own for little Henry. I am 
going to help him get a chance myself in this world, if I can, for 
losing that stone just at the right time for his grandmother and 
for me. 

“ Besides,” said our hostess, “ they say you are going to marry 
his mother.” 


AN IRISH BISMARCK. 


BY EUGENIE UHLRICH. 

“Now what do you think of that? You say you’re in love 
with Martha and Martha’s in love with you, but you’re afraid to 
tell her father for fear he’d say no. And if he said no, what 
would happen?” asked old Martin Beilly of his nephew John. 

“Well,” said John, “I think Martha would feel very bad, 
and she might even think she oughtn’t to see me any more if the 
old man once told her that she mustn’t. This way we can at least 
be friendly, and hope that something will occur to turn his mind.” 

“ And what has he got against you, John ? ” asked Martin 
Beilly, looking admiringly at his strapping nephew with his dark- 
blue eyes anil curly dark hair. “There isn’t a girl in the county 
that’s too good for you, John.” 

John smiled a little. 

“ I wouldn’t be too sure that the girls think so,” he said, 
modestly. “What’s bothering me is how to get old man Schleier 
to think that I’m good enough for his daughter.” 

“ What is it he has against you ? ” asked Martin Beilly once 
more. 

“ Oh, nothing much, I suppose, except that I’m not German.” 

“ H-m-m,” said Martin Beilly, with fire in his eye. “ What’s 
he got against the Irish ? ” 

John shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer. He was 
not going to make it an international discussion. Uncle Mar- 
tin kept on grumbling under his breath for a few minutes. 
Finally he broke out again. 

“ I have an idea, John. I don’t suppose the tactics that will 

153 


154 


AN IRISH BISMARCK . 


catch an Irishman will work wid a German in courtin’. I know 
blamed well they don’t in politics. Why, I’ve seen this here 
county lined up solid to win, except for a lot of spunky Germans 
who wouldn’t come in. They’re that set on havin’ their own way 
that they’d stick to a brace o’ bow-legged mules against a 2.30 
team if they took a notion to the mules first.” 

“ There might be times,” said J ohn, thoughtfully, “ when the 
mules ’d be the most useful.” 

"Well, that ain’t the question now, John, as I can see — don’t 
be disturbin’ me wid fool talk when I’m tryin’ to plan a winning 
campaign fer you. I don’t know but what me experience in 
politics ’ll stand in a courtship, and that is what set me thinkin’ 
of this here Bismarck, that was such a fine boss and statesman 
among the Germans. Now, Bismarck, it seems, had a way that 
went wid the Germans in love as well as in war, and old Schleier 
being a dyed-in-the-wool Dutchman couldn’t mind any one fol- 
lowin’ Bismarck’s example, now, could he ? ” 

“ What’s that? ” said John, looking interested. 

“ Well, you see,” said Uncle Martin, “ I can remember reading 
somewhere that the father of Bismarck’s sweetheart, who was a 
duke or somethin’ — I can’t be expected to remember them Ger- 
man names — was just about as cranky as old man Schleier. None 
of his girls could look at a fellow widout he was threatenin’ to 
lock ’em up and swearing to punish the bold lad. When Bis- 
marck fixed his eye on one o’ the girls — I think her name was 
Johanna — the old man was worse than ever, for Bismarck was a 
young - scapegrace then wid little money and not much pros- 
pects, but sure he had his wit in the right place. So he never 
said an ill word to the old man, but bided his time, just as you’re 
doin’, John. The point is that Bismarck knew his time, and it’s 
wid a view of enlightenin’ you as to that I’m relatin’ this tale. 
Well, then, they had some kind of a party at his father-in-law-to- 
be’s house, and they had one of these dances that they calls co- 
tillyuns. I don’t know much what it’s like, but I suppose it’s 
somethin’ like the Virginia Beel, where everybody’s out on the 
floor in turns. Bismarck hadn’t noticed his sweetheart all evening. 


EUGENIE UHLRICH. 


155 


nor she him, and the old man was just about thinking how good 
and obedient and easy-going they both were, when didn’t Bis- 
marck go and choose the girl for this dance, that no one ever 
dances except with his best girl. Bismarck and Johanna were the 
last couple to have their turn, and when everybody was gone and 
sat down in their places he still kept on dancing with his sweet- 
heart, and finally wound up by giving her a kiss fair and square 
right there before everybody. And then Bismarck turned round 
and told the people there that that kiss was to seal the engage- 
ment, and of course they cheered. By that time the old man got 
his breath and he came down like a thundercloud to see what 
it meant, but his wife was close behind him and his daughter fell 
around his neck as soon as he came near enough and between the 
two women they had him fixed, ‘ For,’ says the old lady, ‘ don’t 
you make a scandal now and say anything that’ll spoil Johanna’s 
chances in life.’ And the daughter says, 4 Don’t you worry none, 
father, he’s able to take care of me ! ’ And so he ended up by shak- 
ing hands with young Bismarck and telling him he was glad he 
was going to have such a fine son-in-law.” 

“Well, that was an idea,” said John. “But,” he added du- 
biously, “ Bismarck didn’t have old man Schleier to face.” 

“Away wid you now, what’s come over you? Do you think 
that if Bismarck could face the old man who was a duke, or a 
lord, or somethin’ like that, you ain’t equal to facing an old Ger- 
man farmer on the Broken Kettle road ? ” 

John whittled away at the stick in his hand and maintained a 
beautiful silence. 

“ Small consolation I have in me old days from a chicken- 

hearted nephew like that. Why when I was a young man ” 

“ Well, whatever you did when you were a young man,” said 
John impertinently, as he got up and walked away to get his 
horse ready to drive over to Schleier’s for the dance, “there was 
little use in it, for you’re not married yet, uncle.” 

“Ye good-for-nothin’ rascal,” called out Uncle Martin, with 
a show of anger that died away in a chuckle as he watched his 
nephew swinging along. 


156 


AN IRISH BISMARCK. 


“ Say, John,” he called after him then, “ remember one thing 
— and that is that Bismarck was sure of his sweetheart’s mother 
before he attacked the father.” 

***** 

When John Beilly reached Schleier’s place, buggies and spring- 
wagons crowded the big open space around which the barn and 
stables were built in a half square — the court they would have 
said in Europe, and, indeed, old man Schleier always spoke of his 
“ Hof,” to the notification of his Irish neighbors. 

Joe Schleier and a hired man were helping the men put up 
their horses as they came, while the girls went over to the house, 
or wandered toward the barn — where the gleaming lantern lights 
and the occasional twang of a fiddle tuning up told of the dancing 
to come later in the soft September evening. Old man Schleier 
himself stood on the porch greeting the arrivals. He held out 
his hand to John and nodded pleasantly enough, but fixed him 
with a keen eye. Martha passed and repassed, however, without 
even glancing at John, and the old man’s face relaxed. 

Presently Mrs. Schleier, fat and good-natured, came over from 
the barn. She held out her hand to John with a broad smile. 

“ So, so ! ” Her English was meager and difficult, but her 
smile made a warm spot around John’s uneasy heart. “ You spik 
mit Mart’a?” she asked. John’s face suddenly colored dark-red, 
and he glaneed apprehensively over his shoulder in the direction 
of the old man. 

Mrs. Schleier nodded understanding^ — her English was alto- 
gether too slow for adequate expression, so she patted John’s hand 
a little and then a word of approval seemed to come to her hap- 
pily, and she nodded again. 

“ All right, all right ; du bis all right, Tschon ,” there was 

a glance over his shoulder, gauging the weather-signs on her 
husband’s face, and she went on to another young man and talked 
to him in German; but John noticed she did not pat the other 
fellow’s hand. Martha had often told John that her mother 
liked him, and she looked as if she meant to show him her liking 
to-day. His Uncle Martin’s story, which had seemed such a joke, 


EUGENIE UHLRICH. 


157 


came back to him. Ah, but it would not do — it was not to be 
thought of here. Before great folk like Bismarck’s people-in-law 
such a bluff might go, for, of course, they would not want any 
talk about their daughter. Then J ohn’s face flushed. What about 
Martha? Old man Schleier’s daughter had no more call to be 
talked about than had that other girl, and the old man himself 
was as careful of his girls as ever “ any of those way-up fellows,” 
said John to himself. That was certain, and it made matters 
all the harder, for John rather realized, if his uncle did not, that 
Bismarck’s people had a settled code of conduct, while old man 
Schleier would be a law unto himself in the wrath of the moment. 

J ohn danced perfunctorily with one girl and then another and 
once or twice had a chance for a passing whisper to Martha. Be- 
tween times he reflected miserably that she seemed to be having 
a very pleasant evening, and wondered how all was going to end. 
To Martha, on her part, it seemed that all the girls at the dance 
had their eyes on John, and each time she joined in a new dance 
it seemed to her she mjist leave her partner and go over to John. 
Her only solace was when their hands met with a reassuring pres- 
sure in the figures of the quadrilles. 

Suddenly Jimmy Mangan, who was calling out the changes, 
cried, “ Ladies’ choice for a Yi’ginia Beel.” Martha started and 
looked toward John over in a corner under a lantern, its round 
shadow falling on his dark head and his eyes gleaming out at her. 
Suddenly it came into her heart like a pain that some other girl 
would ask him, and as for herself, she could not bring herself to 
ask any one else. She saw John start forward a little and if there 
were any other girl who had planned to ask him, neither he nor 
Martha ever knew it. 

“ Seems to me,” whispered Jimmy Mangan during a wait, 
“that you haven’t danced much with Martha to-night, John. 
’Fraid of the old man? We’ll have to make the best of your 
chance while you have it,” and he chuckled as John blushed. 

Up and down the couples went, until each had had a turn, 
and then they waited to hear the “ All promenade,” but Jimmy 
sang out instead, “All waltz,” and winked at John as he did so. 


158 


AN IRISH BISMARCK. 


The blood rushed to John’s heart, instead of his face, this time, 
and he felt himself trembling as he and Martha commenced the 
turns of the waltz. Here it was — just like Uncle Martin’s story. 
He knew the fiddlers would never stop playing as long as any one 
kept the floor, and he and Martha were surely good to dance 
them all down. And what then? Round and round they 
glided and one by one the other couples went to their seats, 
and at last John and Martha were dancing all alone. He swept 
the room with a quick glance and he saw old man Schleier’s eye 
fixed upon him with a wrathy glint in it, but beside him stood 
Mrs. Schleier, benign and approving. It was as if the scene had 
been set on the Bismarck model. 

"Martha, darling,” John whispered on the impulse of the 
moment, “will you be mad at me if I do something terribly 
bold?” 

Martha was nearly breathless, but she shook her head and 
smiled. So John gave a few more turns until they were well in 
the middle of the room, when he stopped dancing and waited until 
the fiddles stopped. Then he drew Martha toward him again and 
kissed her before everybody. A little gasp went around the room, 
and then John spoke out, looking straight at the old man, “ This is 
to announce that Martha and me’s engaged to bo married.” 

The old man looked for a moment as if he were going to have 
an apoplectic fit, and John was truly frightened, but Martha came 
closer to him. He saw Mrs. Schleier put her hand on her hus- 
band’s arm as he started forward. She said something to him 
which John could not hear and could not have understood if he 
had. 

“ So, so,” said the old man, when he came up in front of John 
and Martha, “ vat kind of foolishness is dis ? ” 

Martha freed herself from John’s arms, and going up to her 
father, said gently: 

“Ho foolishness, father, only a little surprise. And you al- 
ways said John was such a fine fellow.” Her father looked at her 
as if he thought she was dreaming. 

“ Well, didn’t you ? ” she asked boldly. 


EUGENIE UHLRICH. 


159 


<e Maybe I said he vas goot enough for ein Irishman.” 

J ohn ,bore the modification meekly. “ I heard once,” he said 
then, “ that this was the way the great Bismarck was engaged, and 
I thought maybe it was the way that Germans do,” and at this a 
smile went around the room. Even the old man seemed to catch 
its feeling. 

“ So,” he said with a sarcastic chuckle, “you want to be like 
Bismarck. You ” 

“ Don’t you see, father,” said Martha, “ he’s half a German 
already and we’re only engaged, and maybe he will be in the 
legislature yet.” 

“ Hm, engaged, you engaged ! ” The dreaded storm seemed 
gathering again, but Joe Schleier, who really liked John very 
well, commenced clapping his hands, and the others joined in, 
until Jimmy Mangan called out, "Three cheers for Mr. and Mrs. 
Schleier and three more for Bismarck and Mr. and Mrs. Johnny 
Reilly to-be, and then let’s have a German waltz.” They cheered 
and cheered until the roof of the barn shook, and presently the 
band played " Lauterbach,” and J ohn danced with old Mrs. 
Schleier and Martha with her father. 

* * * * * 

“ The more power to Bismarck and all belonging to him,” said 
Uncle Martin Reilly the next morning when his nephew told 
him. “ He was the lad that knew how to get his way, and here’s 
another,” and he slapped John resoundingly on the back. 

And that is how John Reilly was Bismarck Reilly ever after, 
except when he signed his name to the marriage certificate. 






THE LITTLE POSTULANT. 


BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 

On the day of the great storm the Superior of the convent of 
Saint Maur had found a little shoe in a bed of pansies — her par- 
ticular care — in the garden. It was of white kid, probably be- 
longing to a child of two or three years of age. It was lined with 
silk and over the instep was a tiny turquoise buckle. The great 
wind-storm of this day and the night before had ceased at three 
o’clock ; it was then that the Superior had found most of her oaks 
robbed of their leaves and branches, and her pansies untouched by 
the wind. A sailboat had been driven into the bay in the early 
morning. It was high up in the sand, and in it were a dead sailor 
boy — evidently the pilot — and a richly dressed woman, so battered 
by the wind and waves that she was beyond recognition. Later, 
a man discovered in the grass, under one of the dismantled oaks, 
a little girl of two. Her dress was draggled, filled with sand and 
torn ; but she was asleep. She did not open her brown ej'es from 
under the moist tangle of golden hair until she was in the Mother 
Superior’s room. Then she held out her little hands, and, wet as 
she was, she was warmly clasped in the arms of the Superior. 

Months passed. It was discovered that, before the storm broke, 
an xAmerican and his wife, who had come down from Paris, had 
engaged the young sailor to take them for a sail beyond the 
breakers at Pointe Pochette. Nobody remembered whether there 
was a child with them or not. Here the matter rested. 

It was presumed that the man had been washed overboard, that 
the child had crawled from the boat, and, creeping under the iron 
railing of the convent gate, had found refuge in the garden. The 
child spoke English. Her name, she said, was Agnes. The rest 

161 


162 


THE LITTLE POSTULANT. 


of it nobody could make out. After the search for clues was 
over and none found, the Mother Superior kept the child. 

“ But, Reverend Mother, we are so poor,” urged the assistant 
Superior, who was much younger. “ We need so many things.” 

“ Saint Teresa once said that a community of nuns would do 
well to care for a little child. You remember that — and, since 
Saint Teresa has said it, I will retain Agnes here, that our Sisters 
may keep young of heart.” 

“But, Mother, the expense — the responsibility.” 

“ You are becoming too old and prudent,” said the Superior, 
laughing. “ So old and so prudent that you need to hear the 
prattle of a little child more than all. She shall be your Special 
care, Sister Marie. Ah, Sister, this little child will bring a bless- 
ing — a help some time when we need it most. I have lived long, 
and I know that God does not forget those who succor these small, 
helpless beings ! ” 

“ What could one say to this ? ” Sister Marie asked herself ; 
and, as the days went by, she became more light-hearted, more 
cheerful, more really nun-like, under the influence of the little 
child. The white shoe was shown to all strangers that came to the 
convent; there it was, just as if it had never passed through the 
death-dealing sea, snow-white, with the heart-shaped blue buckle, 
and the name “ Agnes ” written on the silk lining. 

Agnes gradually ceased to be a little girl. There was a time 
when the Superior had seriously wondered whether she should 
not be sent into the world ; but Agnes would have nothing to do 
with the world. 

“ I am happy here,” she said. “ I love the vineyard, the 
orchard, the garden — above all, the chapel. I am not a burden. 
The Sister Econome tells me that my illuminations have paid 
the last of the debt on the organ. When I am old enough, I will 
be a nun and pray always for my father and mother.” 

“ What could one do ? ” Sister Marie asked all the other 
Sisters. 

Tn time, the Mother Superior passed away, and Agnes took 
thousands of pansies to cover her coffin in the night, and the Sisters 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


163 


let her do it, out of pity for the young heart that was bowed under 
its first grief, and, prudently, they also let her weep till she was 
tired beside the coffin. 

When time had passed, Agnes became a postulant, and a 
happier postulant never lived. 

“ How I love my home ! ” she said to Sister Marie, who was 
now the Superior. “ Never shall I leave it or thee, dearest Mother. 
All things in life change, except these little nests of our dear 
Lord, the convents ! ” 

While Agnes was still a postulant an elderly man, dignified in 
appearance, with a military air, came to visit the convent, for it 
was one of the sights of Valengy-sur-Mer ; and the late Mother was 
famous for having saved the country-side from poverty by teaching 
the peasant women the almost-lost art of making the celebrated 
lace of Valengy. He had gone through the place with a melan- 
choly air. The portress had noticed this. 

“ You are alone. Monsieur? ” 

“ Alone,” he said. “ Alone. I have not even a child.” 

“ Ah, even convents are lonely if there be not one little child 
there,” said the portress, as he entered. He did not stay long ; he 
merely paid his respects to the Superior, asked questions about the 
lace-making, and went back to his hotel, leaving a gift for the 
furtherance of the industry that, by its large amount, amazed 
Mother Marie. 

“ His name is Ringgold,” the Mother said. “ He has been a 
Major in the American army; he is not, as yet, of the faith; we 
must pray for him every day.” 

The little postulant’s opinion that convents do not change 
was, it turned out, not sound. The Government had determined 
that the Sisters of Saint Maur should leave their convent. This 
new Government had not even the sense of justice of the old 
anarchy of Robespierre. The Superior of Robespierre’s day had 
been the benefactor of the district, and she had gone boldly to 
Paris when the Terrorist threatened her convent, and spoken with 
such earnestness that he had protected her, and given her the 
property of her brother, who had emigrated. This she held as a 


164 


THE LITTLE POSTULANT. 


sacred trust; but the Republic of 1903 was less just and clement 
than the bloody Maximilian. 

The rumor of the acceptance of the Law of Associations 
reached Valengy-sur-Mer ; but nobody believed that the beloved 
Sisters of Saint Maur would be disturbed. They were the benefac- 
tors of the district. ThS grandmothers had loved them ; the grand- 
children loved them. Why should they be disturbed? When the 
news came that the Sisters must leave their convent, the country- 
side was in an uproar. Even the Reds, who talked loudly in the 
cabarets of Free Thought, were astonished and indignant. The 
convent was poor, but its buildings — erected by the grateful 
brother of that courageous Mother who had saved his estate under 
Robespierre — were handsome, and its garden — laid out under 
Louis XIV. — was beautiful. Hundreds of men and women left 
their work to defend the Sisters. It was useless; the soldiers of 
the Republic confronted the “mob,” and once, when the men 
ranged themselves in front of the gate, the soldiers fired over the 
heads of the crowd. At that moment the Sisters filed out, and sobs 
and imprecations filled the air. 

Mother Marie tried to be calm and unmoved, for the Sisters, 
most of whom had not been outside the convent in a score of years, 
were as excited and helpless as fluttered doves. She held fast to 
Agnes, but so numerous were the claims on her attention, that, 
after the soldiers fired, she missed her. Then Sister Frangoise, 
who had been inclosed for forty years, claimed all her care. 

During the shameful struggle, a tall man of a military bear- 
ing had sat in a carriage watching it from the corner of the street. 
He started and uttered an angry exclamation when the soldiers 
fired. He saw a little Sister, in the habit of a postulant, swty 
aside and struggle through an open space in the crowd unnoticed. 
Something seemed to stir in his heart. He rushed forward and 
caught her in his arms, blood flowing upon him from a wound in 
her side and dyeing her white habit. 

“ I have no home,” she said, softly. “ I am wounded, sir; take 
me to the church, that I may die.” 

"Ho home ! ” The bearded face became dark, and he was 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


165 


about to make the air ring with bis curses, when the look m her 
eyes checked him. Blood still flowed from her side ; it was evident 
that she had been struck by a stray bullet. 

“ To the hotel ! ” he said to the driver, as he lifted the fragile 
little figure into the carriage. He took the cushions from the 
seats, and made her as comfortable as possible. 

“ No home ? ” he asked. “ And the other Sisters ? ” 

“ Some of them have relatives, but I have none ; I am an 
orphan, the child of the convent.” 

“ You shall have a father from this time,” he answered, tears 
filling his eyes. “ And I swear that my means shall supply the 
Sisters with homes in a free country.” 

A smile illuminated her pale face. She dropped from her 
nerveless hand a little bag she held, and from it fell a rosary, given 
to her by Mother Marie, and the little shoe. The Major picked 
the shoe up and turned it in his hands tremulously. * Agnes/* 
he read — “ Agnes ! ” in his dead wife’s writing. He looked, en- 
lightened, into the sweet face of the little postulant ; he knew her, 
and his heart throbbed. 

“ My child ! ” he said. 

She did not answer. 

" Drive for your life ! 99 he called out. And then, in accents of 
love and agony, he whispered, "Agnes ! ” 

She did not answer — for she could never answer to any human 
call in this world. 




THE TEST OF THE REBEL. 


BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 

Casimir Strelski had a hard life, but, as some of his neigh- 
bors in the tenement house often remarked, that was no reason 
why he should make it hard for others. Casimir had been 
brought from Poland by his father and mother. He was a small 
boy then, but he had lived in a little colony of expatriated Poles, 
hard-working persons, where aspirations both for Poland and 
themselves had gradually given place to a settled bitterness against 
life in general, and it must be admitted that life in particular 
offered them hot rooms in summer, cold or overheated rooms in 
winter, the continual whirring of, the sewing-machines in these 
rooms, crowded with workmen and workwomen, and a constant 
monotony. Casimir married an Irish girl; he had met her at 
church on one of the few occasions he visited the sacred edifice. 
Maria was born, and the mother died, and a year after came the 
passing away of both his parents. 

“ God has deserted me,” he said, as he stood beside the coffin 
in the little flat, filled to suffocation with sympathizing neigh- 
bors. A kind Neapolitan woman passed through the room of 
death, with the little Maria in her arms, and, as she passed, the 
spring breeze blew through the window and stirred the white 
hyacinths on the coffin. Their fragrance seemed to encircle the 
father, bent, sallow, almost spectral — his long hair falling about 
his white face. He started as he saw the child. For years after, 
whenever the scent of flowers came to him, from the shops or 
from the venders at the street corners, he grew sick, and a bitter 
rage possessed him. His one chance of happiness had been taken 
from him. The priest came to him, and talked of the con- 

167 


168 


THE TEST OF THE REBEL. 


solation that must come to those who endure sorrow for the love 
of Christ. Strelski broke forth in such words that the priest 
never came again. 

Maria grew to be seven years of age. It was time that she 
should make her First Communion, the Irish and* Italian women, 
kindly neighbors, said. After his wife’s death Strelski had moved 
away from the colony of his own people. The little Maria at this 
time was sweet and gentle — of a fineness of manner and air that 
was lily-like, yet with the rosy cheeks and dark brown hair of her 
mother. Strelski seemed to dislike her as he disliked the scent of 
the hyacinths and the thought of God. 

He was making a fair living now ; there were thirty men and 
women in the shop he had acquired; he drove them to the limit 
of his power. 

“ Who has a right to joy ? ” he asked, sullenly. “ I have had 
none ! ” 

Maria he seldom saw. He gave the matrons money for her, 
and roughly bade them keep her out of his way. 

“ She shall know nothing of God — I will not have it ! ” he 
roared. 

“ Indeed ! ” said the stout matron, Mrs. O’Toole, facing him. 
She had just proffered the request about the First Communion. 

“ Nothing ! 99 he repeated, looking at her fiercely. “ I am 
against all religion.” 

“ Indeed ! 99 she said, ironically, and then, with fine contempt, 
\ “ I guess you’re only a Polish Jew, anyhow. If the poor child 
had any blood relations, they’d take it out o’ you. I believe you 
married an orphant just to tyrannize over her ! ” 

Strelski turned his back on the angry woman. He went off to 
one of the atheistical meetings, where, as Mrs. O’Toole said, “ The 
cowards shook their fists at God at a safe distance.” 

“ You’ll have to come to God at last,” was Mrs. O’Toole’s last 
shot. “ You can’t prevent your little one’s praying for you — nor 
your wife ! ” 

He caught sight of the little one as he went downstairs, but, 
though she stretched out her arms, he did not stop to kiss her. 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


169 


He had an impulse to do it — a little flower seemed to bloom for a 
moment in his heart. He crushed it; to do otherwise would be 
to acknowledge, in some vague way, the power of that Being 
whom he was resolved to defy — and yet the slight figure and the 
rosy face haunted him. Money he was gaining, power he had, in 
spite of Heaven ! When the men at the meeting applauded his 
speech against God, he felt that he was conquering; still, before 
his eyes was the little face, and his heart ached. Joy might lead 
that way, but to acknowledge the sweetness and purity' of the 
child would be to bow to the Being who had bereft him. He whom 
he wished to defy. 

Mrs. O’Toole had dressed Maria in a white frock and taken 
her to Mass. Strelski could not prevent this ; he had to pretend 
not to know it. He was shaving in the small living room. Every- 
thing about the room was simple and clean; above the bed was 
a wooden crucifix, the august figure well carved. It had been his 
wife’s, and he had never dared to remove it, though he had thought 
of doing so once or twice. The windows were open, and the wind 
of a May Sunday made the white curtains blow inward. He fin- 
ished wiping his razor as Maria entered alone, in her white hat 
and frock. Strelski started — the child was so like his wife — 
and she held in her hand a spray of white hyacinth, which Mrs. 
O’Toole, who loved flowers, had grown in her window. 

“ Father,” the pleading voice said, “ oh, do kiss me, as the 
other papas kiss their little girls ! ” 

He was touched for a moment, and half turned toward her. 
“ And do let me make my First Communion with the other 
children.” 

His eyes flashed. He dared not strike the child. He looked 
around the room, swearing under his breath. He jumped upon 
the whit?, iron bed, and tore the crucifix from the wall. The 
window was three stories above the street; he thrust aside the 
curtain, and threw the sacred emblem out, cursing as he flung it 
to destruction. 

“ There ! ” he said. “ You know what I mean at last ! ” 

Maria’s eyes grew dark, and her little face whitened. 


170 


THE TEST OF THE REBEL. 


“ Mother’s cross ! 99 she cried. “ I must save it ! The dear 
Lord ! ” 

As light as a white blossom in the wind, she sprang upon a 
chair, and, before Strelski could move, she had jumped from the 
window, following the crucifix. He sank down upon the bed, 
unnerved, overwhelmed. The great God had conquered him ! He 
was alone— he saw, in the hundredth time of a second, the fair 
little face, blood-stained, crushed in the cruel street, and the 
death of his child was his work. He dared not go to the window. 
He was dully aware of the scent of the hyacinth in the air, and he 
knew that he could not escape God. His heart was sick, fear was 
upon him. 

“ If, 0 God,” he said, in agony, painfully making his way to 
the window, “ this should he a dream — 0 Mary in heaven, pray 
that God may be kinder to me than I — 99 

He was near the window ; he could not look. 

“ Father ! ” 

The door opened behind him. Maria, her frock rumpled and 
torn — in her eyes a strange glow, entered, with the crucifix in 
her arms. 

“ I fell where it had fallen, on the fire-escape below, and 
nobody was in Mrs. O’Toole’s rooms, so I came up. Oh, father, 
don’t throw the cross out again — mother’s cross ! 99 — her voice was 
choked with tears. 

He kissed the cross reverently, and then he caught the amazed 
child in his arms. 

“ Christ ! 99 he murmured, softly, and Maria, thinking that he 
was beginning the Litany of the Blessed Virgin, knelt at his feet, 
and repeated : 

“ Christ, hear us ! 

“ Christ, graciously hear us ! 99 


THE OLD GREEN CHEST. 

BY MARY F. NIXON-ROULET. 

It was a queer old chest, not in the least romantic. Ginevra’s 
carved oaken tomb was beautiful, but this was only a huge pine box 
painted green, the lid hinged and locked. It had stood in the 
attic ever since Eustacie could remember; indeed, it had been 
there when she was born. Her mother had died when she was 
a baby, and her Aunt Abby, her father’s sister, had brought her 
up in an atmosphere of as strong Puritanism as the grimness 
of the spinster’s name, Abigail Miriam Stone, would indicate. 

Eustacie’s name had always been a subject of disapproval 
with the aunt. She had endeavored to have it changed when 
she came to take charge of her brother’s affairs, only to meet with 
a stern refusal from that gentleman and the remark, “ She bears 
her mother’s name.” Much as she had disliked her sister-in-law, 
Miss Abigail Miriam Stone dared not say aught which savored 
of this to the brother, who adored his wife’s memory ; so she took 
out her dislike by calling the child Stacy. 

“ None of your play-acting names for me,” she muttered. 
“ Folks’ll think her name is Anastasia, a Christian cognomen, 
though not quite so pious as Hope or Deliverance, and she shall 
never know she has any other calling so far as I can keep it,” 
and she set her thin lips in a line of determination. 

Fortunately for little Eustacie, she was sweet of heart, gay as 
her bright-faced mother had been when she married stern John 
Stone, and went with him to Kansas to live but one short year. 

There was a strain of Acadian in her blood, and her little girl 
showed it in her crisp, black hair and sparkling eyes, though 
there was some of her father’s determination in her firm lips and 

171 


172 


THE OLD GREEN CHEST. 


resolute chin. Her aunt’s restrictions had not soured her sweet- 
ness, and she had given the old woman genuine love in return 
for the care so long lavished upon her. 

When her father died, Aunt Abigail had sent her away to 
school, and although at first the sixteen-year-old girl was bitterly 
homesick and had cried herself almost ill, she soon expanded and 
bloomed in the genial atmosphere of the pleasant school in the 
old French town upon the great river’s bank. Two years she 
remained there, her vacations spent with friends, and then, 
graduated with honors, she went hack to her aunt and her home 
on the prairies. She longed, yet dreaded, to see her aunt, for, 
much as she loved her, she feared to tell her that she had become 
a Catholic. Through the life rather than the influence of a 
school friend, a life of such sweet dutifulness that it appealed 
to Eustacie as if fed by some hidden spring which she had not, 
she was led to look into the Catholic faith, and, once instructed, 
her ardent nature led her to embrace it fervently. To the plea 
of the priest who instructed her that she should first speak to 
her friends at home, she replied : 

“I have no father and mother, my aunt has no rightful 
authority over me, but if I go home unbaptized she will see that 
I never receive the sacrament, for there is no priest nearer than 
fifty miles. Father, do take me now.” 

So he consented, and to her soul, warm with the eager first 
flamed of devotion, the Blessed Sacrament came with perfect joy. 

Almost immediately afterward she was called home by Miss 
Stone’s illness, and arrived at Prairie Farm to find the stricken 
woman unconscious. All thoughts save of her aunt’s perilous 
condition were blotted out of the girl’s mind. She watched her 
day and night, praying earnestly that the sick woman might be 
spared to speak at least once to her ere she died. What was to 
become of her? She had not a relative in the world that she 
knew of. Her father had been an orphan, with onty the one 
sister; of her mother’s friends she had heard no mention at all. 
She could not live on there at the farm with black Seeley, the 
cook, who had been her old mammy, and the farm hands. 


MARY F. NIXON-ROULET. 


173 


“ I know how Our Lady felt,” she thought, sadly, “adrift 
in Bethlehem town. But she had St. Joseph to lean upon, and I 
have no one.” Then, her new-found faith asserting itself, “ Yes ; 
I have St. Joseph, too, and Our Lord and Our Lady besides, and 
oh, how selfish I am to be thinking about myself when poor Aunt 
Abby is dying ! ” 

At last the fever-stricken eyes opened, there was a moment’s 
gleam of recognition in them as they fell on Eustacie’s face. 
Her hand pressed the girl’s ever so slightly and the parched 
lips murmured, haltingly: 

“ The green chest — your aunt ” There was a faint strug- 

gle to say more, and Aunt Abigail was dead. 

Eustacie was stunned. Through the days which followed she 
was like one in a dream. The good doctor’s wife came and stayed 
with her, with the gentle charity of those prairie folk, but after 
the funeral was over and Aunt Abigail laid to rest beside her 
brother under the alfalfa where the wind soughed her requiem, 
she felt that she must go home to her brood of little ones, and 
gently inquired as to Eustacie’s plans. 

“ I don’t know what to do. I have no relatives, Mrs. Folke. 
I might go back to school. Will you stay with me just till to- 
morrow and let me think what Aunt Abby would have wanted 
me to do ? ” 

“ Certainly, my dear, as long as you need me,” was the kind 
answer, though the mother heart was full of anxiety for her 
children. 

Trying to rest that afternoon, Eustacie thought over the last 
few weeks and all they had brought to her of happiness and sorrow. 

“ If I only knew what to do,” she thought. “ I wonder what 
poor Aunt Abby was trying to say to me at the last.” Then with 
a sudden flash of recollection — “The green box — could it be 
there was something there she wanted me to see ? I think I will 
go and look,” and, filled with the idea, she sprang to her feet 
and ran up the attic steps hurrying to search the old chest. 

There it stood, dusty and cobwebby, and she dragged it out 
into the middle of the floor, opening it eagerly. The faint, sweet 


174 


THE OLD GREEN CHEST. 


scent of lavender floated out, and she saw within her mother’s 
wedding clothes, a snowy heap, the tiny shoes, the gloves, the 
veil, the satin dress. Softly she laid a fold against her lips, 
murmuring : 

“ Sweet little mother, pray for me and tell me what to do.” 

Beneath was a parcel of letters, neatly folded and tied, and 
a little white-covered book. She took it in her hand with sur- 
prise, seeing the title, Vade Mecurn , and opening to the flyleaf, 
she found, written in a delicate hand: 

18 — 

To my little niece and namesake 
Marie Eustacie, 

With love from Aunt Marie. 

May she ever be Mary’s Child. 

May First. 

For a moment she could not grasp the meaning. It was her 
birthday — was she Marie Eustacie? — then it flashed upon her. 
Her mother must have had a sister Marie, that was what Aunt 
Abby had meant. “ Your aunt — the green box — ” Hurriedly 
she read the letters, gathering from them that her Aunt Marie 
was married, that she lived in the South, that she was, oh, 
blessed thought ! a Catholic. At the bottom of the pile was a little 
bit of paper signed by her mother. 

“ In case of her father’s death, I wish my little daughter to 
belong to her aunt and godmother, my sister, Marie Poitiers, 
St. Louis.” 

“ It is a voice from the dead,” said Eustacie, and she carried 
the papers to Mrs. Folke, saying : “ See — God has decided all for 
me. I must go to my aunt.” 

When, a few weeks later, Prairie Farm was sold and the 
east-bound train bore away with it Eustacie, to be warmly wel- 
comed to her aunt’s heart, it carried also the only treasure the 
girl had saved from the old home’s furniture, the old green chest. 


“THE VERY LITTLE ONE.” 


BY GRACE KEON. 


Many and many a day they might be seen — the old man and 
the little child. The old man, careless of attire, in slouched hat 
and well-worn coat — bearing on the sleeves and front of it the 
buttons of the G. A. R. — a sturdy veteran he. The little child, 
toddling along the paved walk beside him, clinging to the hand he 
had to stoop to give her. Could one tell, at sight of them, that it 
was the life’s beginner leading him who had turned life’s last 
milestone ? 

People went out of their way to salute Miles Lester. He 
was one of the old-timers — one of the men whose money had 
done much to build up the town; one of the men whose honesty 
and probity had helped to establish it among its fellows; and 
one of those on whom fortune had at last turned its frown in 
the hardest time of all — old age. 

No man had been more prosperous than he. Miles Lester 
never went in for “ style,’’ but he had a comfortable home. His 
wife was one of the best, most gentle and most sympathetic of 
women; his daughter Agnes followed in the mother’s footsteps; 
his son, Miles, a credit to his name and family — a young man 
for whom was predicted the highest honors. 

Why is it that those who seem most favored by the Lord are, 
apparently, the least grateful? Miles Lester performed his 
church duties — occasionally; went to Mass — occasionally. Sub- 
scribed liberally to all charitable projects, irrespective of creed, 
and shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently when reminded 

175 


176 


THE VERY LITTLE ONE.' 


that his faith was not a “ living” faith; that his charity was 
well in its way, but that even charity, “ covering a multitude of 
sins,” does not absolve the Catholic from attending Mass on Sun- 
day and from fulfilling the yearly precept of confession and 
communion; does not absolve the Catholic from daily prayer for 
the bread of the soul — the grace of God. 

That had been six years before. The first heavy cloud on 
the horizon was trouble with investments. Miles Lester, Jr., 
came home from college then, expelled, and shortly afterward 
left the town, going none knew whither. This preying on the 
mother’s mind, she failed day by day, and after a little slipped 
out of life altogether. Only Agnes was left — and being her 
mother’s daughter, she did her very best to make up to her father 
for that heavy loss. She postponed her wedding for a year, and 
would have made the postponement indefinite had not old Miles 
Lester insisted upon the marriage taking place at the end of that 
time. 

So she married Philip Hasbrouck, and her husband went to 
live with her in the Lester house, which was still spared them 
in spite of the cutting-down of income. For a time things went 
smoothly — although the old man brooded a great deal. His 
wife’s death had embittered him; his son’s unfortunate ending 
of a career on which he had placed many hopes made him rail at 
the fate that had reserved such trials as these for his old age. 
Half in scorn, half in mockery, he asked what harder blow could 
fortune or Providence launch against him. 

He was to learn. 

He was old, accustomed to the smile of the world, and not 
its frown. Accustomed to holding his head high, and even, in 
spite of his democracy, accustomed to the use of that patronizing 
tone which is permitted from a man to his social inferiors. 
Deprivation of money, of love, of pride, had not altered his 
character one jot — nor had sorrow over the three lessened its 
sternness. 

When Philip Hasbrouck had been a year and a half married 
to Agnes Lester he was one day taken home dead. A part of 


GRACE KEON. 


177 


the machinery in the engine-room had broken down — and in 
endeavoring to fix it, the young engineer had lost his life. They 
carried his body to the house he had left a few hours previously 
full of high hopes, and happiness, and gay spirits. 

Agnes Hasbrouck met them with their ghastly burden. 
There was no loud weeping — she did not become hysterical. A 
curious distortion of the lips — almost a smile — as she looked 
down at the white face. Then she fell. That night old Miles 
Lester realized that Providence, for its own good reason, had 
stripped him of everything. 

Leaving him, in place of riches, and son, and the man who 
had been a son to him — in place of daughter and wife and pride 
and possessions, a wailing little infant that had cost its mother 
her life. 

Kind people flocked to him to help him bear this last most 
bitter blow. He could not appreciate their sympathy, failing 
to realize the full extent of his misfortune. One young woman 
took the baby — one who had been Agnes Lester’s very dear friend 
— who had been with her when she died. There were three 
little ones in her own house, but she took this one to her heart 
almost passionately. 

The man’s helplessness merged into hopelessness. There 
was enough and to spare for his few needs — black poverty had 
not been forced upon him. The old woman who had been with 
the family since old Miles was young Miles, saw to his meals 
and kept house for him. He ate next to nothing. He spoke 
little. He wandered from room to room with an apathetic 
look upon his face, as if he were seeking vainly for something 
or some one hidden from him which search might discover. 

It was whispered about that Miles Lester’s brains were 
touched. 

He had never asked to see his daughter’s child, although six 
months had passed since its birth, and it was now a thriving, 
lusty babe, fat and rosy and happy in the mother-care that Anne 
Dillon gave it. She had stood sponsor for it, giving it the name 
that Agnes had loved — her mother’s name, Lucy. But when 


178 


THE VERY LITTLE ONE. 


she heard the rumor of old Miles Lester’s growing affliction, a 
daring resolve came to her. She took the baby and pressed it to 
her lovingly. 

“It’s like giving up my own,” she said — tears in her eyes 
and tears in her voice, too. “Yet I must risk it, darling. And 
if the worst comes — which God prevent — I can have you back 
again.” 

So she dressed the child in its soft white baby things and 
laughed at it and tossed it into chuckling good humor. Then 
she made her way across the lots that divided the humble Dillon 
cottage from the more pretentious Lester dwelling. 

“ Where is Mr. Lester ? ” she asked of the housekeeper/ “ I 
have brought him a visitor to-day.” And she settled the baby 
more firmly on her shoulder. 

The old woman, half-blind, half-deaf, half-comprehending, 
motioned toward the parlor. And there Anne Dillon found him. 

Her heart failed her as she entered. There were signs of neg- 
lect — the housekeeper could no longer pay attention to details, 
and the young servant-maid was evidently careless. Anne Dillon 
stood at the door, looking about her at the room which had been 
so spotlessly clean, so daintily homelike when Agnes had been 
there; stood looking finally at the broken-down man who had 
lost everything that could make life dear to him. Old and shriv- 
eled and aged, he crouched in a chair at the window — not a 
gleam of expression on his face — not a gleam of expression in 
his eyes. 

“ Good afternoon, Mr. Lester ! ” she called, cheerily, in her 
young and cheery voice. “ I thought I’d come over to see you 
to-day. It’s too fine to be indoors. Why don’t you open the 
window, and let in some of the fresh air? It’s wonderful 
weather.” 

He nodded assent — turning his head toward the street — 
toward the sunshine playing hide-and-seek on the dappled pave- 
ment and dusty road — cognizant, as if for the first time, that 
such a thing as God’s sunshine existed. 

“ It looks to be so,” he answered her absently. “ It looks to be 


GRACE KEON. 


179 


so — ” He brought his puzzled eyes to hers — and fear contracted 
the young woman’s pitiful heart. 

“ Surely you remember me ? ” she said, and her voice broke, 
and there was a great lump in her throat. “ Oh, surely you re- 
member Anne Dillon, Mr. Lester — ” 

A spasm of pain seemed to quiver across his face. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ Yes. I remember you, Anne, very well.” 

The girl — she was only that in years, and her babies had 
made her even younger than her age, for all the care they were — - 
came forward, pulling a chair toward him with her free hand, 
and seating herself beside him. 

“ Look ! ” she said. “ I have brought you a baby, to cheer 
you up — a happy, little, gurgling, pretty baby! Just look at 
her, Mr. Lester.” 

“A fine baby,” he answered — if capable of feeling at all, 
being annoyed with Mrs. Dillon for intruding on his privacy. 
“ A very fine baby.” 

But he was not interested. 

“ I think she knows you,” said Anne. “ I think she does 
know you. There ! Did you see those dimples, Mr. Lester ? ” 

She brought the joyous, chuckling baby nearer to him, held 
her out to him; rested her on his shrunken knees. Forced to it, 
he looked at her, seeing her this time. Something in the tiny 
face attracted him. 

“ She has her mother’s eyes,” said Anne, in a hushed voice. 
“ Did you see, ever, such cornflower blue in any pair of eyes but 
one? And her hair — it is like the yellow grain itself, as soft 
and fine and beautiful as Agnes’ own — ” 

“ My God ! ” he said under his breath. He stared at the 
mite — who clutched at his finger wildly and caught it and tried 
to pull it to her mouth. “Oh, my God!” he repeated again, 
moaning and sobbing. “ Oh, my God, but it is Agnes’ child ! 
It is my little girl’s baby — it is my — little — girl’s — baby — ” 

It is a sorrowful thing to see a woman weep; it is a pitiful 
thing to hear a man weep. But when sobs rend the breast of 
the old as sobs burst from this man’s now, then it is time to 


180 


THE VERY LITTLE ONE.' 


feel the anguish of suffering humanity or to know that God has 
denied us sensibility. At the agony in that fainting voice Anne 
Dillon’s big heart contracted. With an impulsive gesture she 
flung her arm about his grizzled neck, and they wept together — 
bitter, bitter tears — while the baby on his knees between them 
crowed and laughed and gurgled as only happy, healthy babies 
know how to do. 

The old soldier straightened up at last, trying to recover him- 
self. His expression was pitiful — but there was the light of 
reason in his eyes. He laid his wrinkled hand over the baby’s 
tiny palm, gazing down at it. 

“ What is her name ? ” he asked. “ What is the little one’s 
name ? ” 

“ Agnes would have called it Lucy — for her mother,” said 
Anne in a low voice. She knew the words would cause a fresh 
sting — but afterward he would feel better. “ So when it was bap- 
tized I gave it that name.” 

“ Lucy ! ” he murmured. “ Lucy ! ” 

He took her up tenderly, and the touch of the helpless little 
body shook him from head to foot with strong emotion once more. 
“ Lucy ! ” he said over and over — thinking perhaps of Agnes, 
his first-born, and of the love and joy he had felt with the Lucy 
of his strong manhood kneeling before him with their baby in 
her arms. Thinking with a heartache of all that had happened 
— of all the joy, the long, long years of peace and joy — and the 
sorrow and desolation of the present. 

“ You have cared for her so long,” he said now. “ I am an 
old man — will you keep her for me a little while? I would not 
know what to do for her.” 

“ You will not take her from me,” said Anne in affright. 
“ I could not think of giving her up — that would be impossible.” 
She half-extended her arms. “ I shall keep her — just as long as 
you will permit me.” 

But he did not heed the invitation of those outstretched 
arms. 

“It’s the first bit of comfort I’ve had in months,” he said. 


GRACE KEON. 


ISA 

“ I fliink she has saved my life, Anne. I think Agnes’ baby has 
saved my life. I felt,” and he shuddered, “as if I were going 
mad. Yes, I will give her to you now — just a moment — ■” 

It was sorrowful. He could not bear to give her; he could 
not keep her. He followed them to the door; out to the stoop; 
stood, looking after them, and Anne held the little one up in 
her arms, and took the baby-hand in hers to wave it in farewell. 
Thus began the mission of the “very little one,” a simple tale' 
when told, and true. 

He came back to his small world again, and tried to take an 
interest in the things around him. But his small world was the 
Dillon household, where Agnes’ baby — the “very little one” 
among all the little ones, was never out of his arms. Months 
passed, and the baby grew and throve without a suspicion of the 
ills that baby flesh is prone to. Although his step had grown 
quite feeble and his form was shaken and his hair white, he 
could laugh with the “very little one,” and play with her as 
merrily as any child among them. 

“ I was in the depths,” he said to Father Murphy. “ I was 
down in the depths — without a hope in God, without a hand to 
cling to, and I was sinking deeper and deeper. Bit by bit the 
light was dying out. Bit by bit I was learning despair. It must 
have been Agnes sent me the ‘ very little one.’ ” 

Father Murphy, as he listened, could well believe it. For 
it was Miles Lester’s first visit to the house of God since his 
wife’s death. He had grown altogether indifferent then; and 
afterward indifference became a habit. So Father Murphy lis- 
tened, glad to feel in his own good heart that a little child was ac- 
complishing the great work God had not permitted older and wiser 
and more learned folk to do. A little child was leading this man 
to the altar-rail. Hot as of old. Hot in the faith sufficient to 
the day, and barely that; not in the faith that was weak and 
brittle and had wavered when ill-luck befell. But into a newer 
land — a land of hope — a land of promise. 

“ Ah ! ” he said now, in a gentle voice. “ God may ask this 
gift of you, also.” 


182 


THE VERY LITTLE ONE: 


The old man looked at him with mournful eyes. 

"I await the event,” he said. "It seems scarcely possible I 
shall be able to keep it with me. His holy will be done.” 

The "very little one’s” mission was accomplished, indeed. 
Father Murphy put his two hands on Miles Lester’s shoulders 
and looked into his face. 

" That is it,” he said. " God has His own way to teach us 
humility. Unless in spirit you be as that babe itself you can not 
pass the threshold. So, then, you have learned your lesson, Miles 
Lester. Oh, what a lesson it is to learn, how hard a lesson it is 
to learn ! ” 

That idea never left Miles Lester’s mind — that the "very 
little one ” would go, as well. It added to his desire to keep her 
w r ith him as much as possible. As soon as her toddling steps 
could pace beside him, he bent his wrinkled hand to hers. And 
thus people came to look for them — the old soldier and the little 
child, walking the narrow pavement that led between the two 
houses — and they went out of their way to greet him, and to 
give him kindly words — with greeting and kindly words also for 
the " very little one.” 

After a while one other companion began to share these daily 
walks — a formidable rival indeed for the affection of the baby — 
so formidable and so forlorn that the grandfather frowned on 
his too eager attention. 

He was first discovered one bright May morning skulking 
uneasily along by the houses, keeping close to them, and eyeing 
the two figures with all the lonesomeness of a solitary cur beg- 
ging to be owned by some one ; begging somebody to take posses- 
sion of him. Lucy discovered him first, of course, and with one 
fat baby hand waving wildly in his direction, she tried to tear 
the other from her grandfather’s clasp. He looked at the mon- 
grel with disfavor. This was not the sort of pet he would choose 
for the "very little one. But the "very little one” had 
chosen. 

There were finer and handsomer dogs running at large. 
Miles Lester would have bought her a big Newfoundland or St. 


GRACE KEON. 


183 


Bernard, and had often tempted her to show an interest in them. 
But Lucy had seemed afraid — until now. The forlorn mongrel 
appealed to her baby heart and she made such a fuss over the 
lonely yellow thing that her grandfather let her have her way — 
for the time being. It would only be for the time being. 

He reckoned without the dog. 

He could not be lured or enticed or bought off. He could not 
be tempted. No bribe could seduce him from his watchfulness. 
They took him to a neighboring town and “ lost ” him. But he 
found his way back again, and was sitting on the Lester door- 
step the next morning. Weary, bedraggled, hungry — 

But joyous. 

Miles Lester became reconciled to the inevitable. The “ very 
little one” could talk now, in lisping, baby syllables, and the 
affection between the yellow dog and her was so sincere that he 
thought it better to make him a bit more respectable. So he 
gave him a bath with his own hands — the little one standing be- 
side him in great glee. Billee was very patient under the novel 
process. By and by Anne Dillon tied a blue ribbon around his 
neck. The contrast between the yellow cur and the blue satin 
ribbon was ludicrous. Only that no one saw anything funny in 
it since it pleased the “ very little one.” 

Every passing day made her dearer. Every passing day made 
her stronger. Every passing day saw her stout, firm, little body 
more erect on her stout, firm, little legs. Billee pranced along 
beside her. Billee slept at her door all night. Billee was her 
playmate and her companion. 

Treasuring the gift with jealous care, offering it daily to 
Him who had lent it, has brought another expression to the old 
soldier’s face. His sorrow is not hopeless — rather is it chastened 
with hope for that great future which is to be his with those he 
loves. Daily the “ very little one ” is bringing him to the heights. 

So they may be' seen — an old man, careless of attire, in 
slouched hat and well-worn coat; and the little child toddling 
the paved walk beside him, clinging to the hand he has to stoop 
to give her. 


9 


THE REDEMPTION OF BILL. 

BY JEROME HARTE. 

The house was small and smoke-begrimed from the many 
passing engines in the near-by freight yards, and it had the gen- 
eral aspect of neglect about the vines that clambered wildly over 
the little side porch and in the uncut grass and weeds of its 
dooryard. The low picket fence that had once been white was 
fast going to decay, and the side yard was strewn with chunks 
of soft coal, uncut black ties from the railroad, and chips about 
the chopping-block. The lace curtains inside the little front 
windows, although much darned, were of fine texture and delicate 
pattern, but many a neighboring housewife displayed in her front 
windows equally splendid lace curtains — of more pretentious pat- 
tern and newness, however — the peace price of a husband’s some- 
time pay-day spree. For the railroaders are big wage-earners and 
heavy drinkers, God help them ! 

But the house, in spite of its sameness, had something about 
( it that stamped it as different from its neighbors ; and they who 
; lived there were different, too. Inside, mingled with the ordinary 
cheap furnishings of a trackman’s home, was here and there a 
relic of better days, — a massive carved walnut bedroom-suit set 
up in the parlor to go with the beautiful old curtains, a priceless 
marble clock on a shelf much too small for it, a huge, elaborately- 
carved secretaire in the living-room, a spacious old velvet chair, 
a few fine family paintings and a rare etching or two upon the 
low walls. Somehow, if these already seemed foreign to Bill, they 
went well with Miss Hester, the old aristocrat. 

Miss Hester was tall and gaunt, with iron-gray hair and un- 
mistakable haughtiness of carriage. Her everyday calico gown 

185 


186 


THE REDEMPTION OF BILL. 


was short as her neighbors’ were, and she worked as hard as they, 
but she walked as a queen as she toiled. On Sunday she went to 
Mass in a purple silk of another day, with a long train, and a bit 
of real lace at her throat. Her silk mitts were darned at the 
fingers, and her bonnet and parasol were very old. She took little, 
precise steps, and carried her head in the air as they had taught 
her to do in an old-time boarding-school, and everybody stared 
at her. Few knew the old aristocrat. Bill never went to Mass; 
he hadn’t been inside a church in thirty years. 

Bill hadn’t worked much that summer. He didn’t like to 
work much any summer — or winter. Bill had been the only son 
of a Southern widow, who had managed to keep a portion of her 
wealth after the war, and he had received a gentleman’s educa- 
tion and had lived as a gentleman, — without work. His sisters, 
one by one, had married well, but Miss Hester gave up many a 
worthy lover to stay with her invalid mother and Bill. 

God’s ways are queer ways, but God’s ways are best. While 
his mother lived, Bill was a good Catholic and a sober fellow. 
From the day that she was laid in her grave he had turned his 
back upon his Maker and had resolutely gone upon the downward 
road. In a way, Miss Hester went with him. Her sister’s love 
and loyalty bespoke no other course. 

Bill’s curse was drink — and distaste for work. He had drifted 
into a railroader’s precarious life, despite his refinement and 
superior education, God knows why. He was content to work 
five days out of ten and to spend what little he earned in drink. 
Miss Hester clothed him and fed him, and his deadened pride 
knew no shame of it. He sank gradually but surely to the level 
»f the unlettered men about him, — better men than he were many 
of them, but unlike him, ignorant of another life; he cursed his 
fate with blind rage, but he had neither wish nor ambition to 
rise higher. Miss Hester’s daily, hourly prayers might make 
him a man again, a sober, industrious man, but thirty years had 
made him irrevocably a railroader, content to go on in a rut and 
to die in a rut. It is in the atmosphere of these great railroader 
centers, as those who know too well will tell you, and drink helps. 


JEROME 11 ARTE. 


187 


Bill might be a man again, but a polished Southern gentleman 
never. 

Not that Miss Hester prayed for that. She asked God for but 
one boon — to bring Bill back to his church. 

“ If I could see him going to his duty and to Mass once more 
I’d die content,” said poor Miss Hester. 

We never know when or how God will answer our prayers. 
Miss Hester had prayed one prayer for thirty years and had not 
despaired, and God answered her prayer — at last. 

Bill hadn’t worked much that summer. Julia, the prettiest 
and most vivacious of Miss Hester’s nieces, had married, and Miss 
Hester had gone to the wedding and to settle the new home. 
When she got back Bill was lounging around the yard with a pipe 
in his mouth. He hadn’t worked since she had been gone and he 
owed every man in town. 

In vain Miss Hester coaxed and stormed. BiN said he would 
never work again. He told her that she could support him or go 
to a warmer place than Sayre. 

Each evening Bill put on a white shirt and a collar and tie, 
curled his mustache and blacked his boots and sauntered forth. 
It was a long time before any one dared to tell the old aristocrat 
that Bill had a girl. 

The “ girl ” was a buxom widow with five small children, — 
a big, good-hearted soul who kept a little home bakery around 
the corner, and who managed to keep her children oil the street 
and to buy an occasional gaudy dress for herself. Her husband 
had left her an insurance, and she was a generous soul. Bill sat 
around her shop and ate her fat cookies and smiled upon her; 
when the children had gone to bed they sat together in the ham- 
mock. Afterward Bill went and drank until morning. Then 
he staggered home and slept all day. 

Miss Hester had prayed for one thing during thirty years and 
now she did not vary her prayer. Bill’s girl was the last blow 
to her later years of trouble. * She had but one thought : the news 
must be kept from the rest of the family. Southern pride is very 
strong. The widow talked with a brogue and in high tones; she 


188 


THE REDEMPTION OF BILL. 


laughed loud, and often went to the grocery store in a calico 
wrapper. She outraged Miss Hester’s fine feelings and sense of 
decorous behavior, and that Bill meant seriously did not at first 
enter his sister’s head. 

August came and Bill suddenly went to work again. He 
drank, it is true, but he worked every day and dressed up every 
evening. He smoked cigars instead of a pipe, and got money 
from Miss Hester to take the widow to the circus. Then the fam- 
ily heard and Miss Hester caught their alarm. But it was too 
late. The widow and Bill were about to be married. 

When Miss Hester trailed her purple silk into church now 
the congregation turned and stared. The widow was one of them 
and the old aristocrat was something above and beyond them. 
Deeper lines had come into her patient face, and sometimes her 
proud old head drooped as though weary of its very pride. 

Then Bill left their little home. He wanted the lace curtains 
and the clock and the family paintings, but Miss Hester stood 
her ground and stooped to quarrel with him, to the surprise and 
amusement of her listening neighbors. Bill went without the 
coveted furniture and took his trunk to the widow’s. That night 
their marriage notice was printed in the city papers. They had 
been properly called and married in church, much to Miss Hes- 
ter’s surprise, for Miss Hester had been ill. 

The family said Bill had been looking for some one to support 
him, and they sincerely hoped that the widow would do nothing 
of the kind. She still kept her little bakery and worked late and 
early, but Bill worked too, every day, and some one told the old 
aristocrat that he had quit drinking. 

Miss Hester’s niece came to take care of her, and her niece’s 
husband ran down Sundays to try his unaccustomed hand at the 
woodpile and to coax Miss Hester to come and live with them. 
Julia had married a rich man and there was a welcome place in 
their luxurious home for Miss Hester. 

It was some weeks before she got out to Mass, and then her 
purple silk hung looser on her shrunken frame; she was a little 
feeble and stooped, but she was haughty still. 


JEROME HARTE. 


189 

J ust before Mass began a ripple ran through the congregation. 
Miss Hester looked up from her beads. The widow, resplendent 
in a red gown, went sailing up the middle aisle, her five children 
in spick and span frocks and suits followed her on a dog-run, and 
Bill brought up the rear. He was clean-shaven and had on a new 
black suit. Miss Hester seemed turned to stone. Her eyes glit- 
tered and a feverish spot came into either cheek, but she sat quite 
motionless. 

It was early Mass and the widow and Bill went to communion. 
There was a new look on Bilks face. Miss Hester had seen such 
a look on his face when it had been young and fresh and he had 
helped his aged mother back from the communion rail. Miss 
Hester’s heart was beating fast. When she got home, she took 
off her bonnet and laid it on the table. The low rooms looked 
strange to her, and the noises of the giant engines in the yard 
fell upon her ears with a new clamor. There was an unanswered 
letter from Julia’s husband on the secretaire. She took it 
up and read it again mechanically. It struck the vulnerable spot 
of Miss Hester’s character — her unselfishness. It said among 
other things, in its teasing way, that Julia couldn’t drive down to 
the office at night to meet him because she had to stay and watch 
the cook so that worthy wouldn’t put too much butter in the pies ! 
If Miss Hester would only see her duty and come and watch the 
cook — 

Miss Hester went to the door. A boy was passing, his new 
store shoes making a painful creaking sound. It was the widow's 
oldest boy. She called him. 

“ Mike,” she said, “ come here.” 

Mike came gingerly : he was much in awe of the old aristocrat. 

“Mike,” she said, “will you please tell Billie — and your 
mother — that if they will come over, they can have the clock and 
the lace curtains ? ” 

Mike’s eyes were like saucers. The marble clock, lace ourtains ! 

“ I’m going to Julia’s to-morrow,” said Miss Hester. A great 
peace and content had settled over her pale face. God’s ways are 
good ways and He answers our prayers in His own good time. 



THROUGH THE TRANSOM. 

BY JULIA C. WALSH. 


“ J UDGE in ? ” 

Young Parmelee wheeled about quickly in his revolving chair, 
astonished at the unexpected voice, for the elderly man who 
uttered the words had entered the room without a sound; yet 
there lie was, standing in the center of the apartment, and the door 
had undoubtedly opened to admit him and was now closed behind 
him. 

Judge Mayben\s confidential clerk glanced at a mirror so ar- 
ranged as to command a view of the inner or private office, and 
answered : 

“ Yes, the Judge is in. Whom shall I announce? ” 

The stranger, following the clerk’s example, glanced at the 
mirror also, and then said: 

“ Seems to be busy.” 

And young Parmelee noticed that his voice, while low and 
quiet, had a peculiarly melodious ring, and possessed remarkable 
carrying qualities. 

“I believe he is only reading the morning paper,” said 
Parmelee. 

“ I think I’ll wait a few minutes, anyhow,” said the soft-voiced 
man ; and Parmelee knew that the stranger had seen in the mirror 
what he had seen, and what struck him as being odd: that the 
Judge had half risen in his chair at the sound of their voices, and 
had sunk back again, turning his back to the door, and conse- 
quently to the mirror. He seemed now to be. absorbed in the 
paper; but suddenly lie leaned over and tapped the small call-bell 
which summoned Parmelee to his desk. 

101 


192 


THROUGH THE TRANSOM. 


“ Dismiss that man,” he said, in a low voice, but with un- 
doubted decision. “ I heard his voice, and know who he is, and 
can guess the nature of his errand. I will not see him. Get rid 
of him some way, hut don’t let him in here. Close the door.” 

The order was so peremptory that there was nothing to be 
said, and Parmelee did as he was bid without a word ; but as he 
closed the door he noted that the Judge’s words had reached the 
man in waiting, whose ears were probably as sharp as his voice was 
gentle, and that the man looked positively disappointed. He 
glanced up, however, and seeing that the wide transom over the 
door was open, he said: 

“ If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down a minute,” and Parmelee 
waved him to a chair. 

He took it; and as Parmelee cast a hasty but scrutinizing 
glance at him and tried to classify him, a habit he was cultivating 
professional^, he realized that he had a difficult and non-com- 
mittal subject to deal with. 

“Pm from the Judge’s town,” said the stranger. 

“ Are you ? An old friend, I suppose ? ” 

“ H’m ! well, yes — and no. He did me a mighty good turn 
once — more than once — and I’ll never forget it; but we weren’t 
just on a par down home.” Then, after a brief pause : 

“ Does the J udge ever go down there ? ” 

“ I think not ; at least, he has not gone for a number of years.” 

“ Still holds on to the old homestead, I suppose ? ” 

“ I believe so.” 

The man half turned away his face, and gazed at the floor, 
nodding his head thoughtfully, as though revolving something in 
his mind. He turned again suddenly and surprised young Parme- 
lee’s intent look, which he returned for a brief instant ; and then, 
smiling as though understandingly, he said : 

“An odd thing happened down there a couple of days ago. 
Did the Judge ever tell you about the Hunart Bank robbery? ” 

Parmelee shook his head negatively. 

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t. It happened about forty years 


JULIA G. WALSH. 


193 


ago; but I’ll bet he’s not forgotten it. Hunart was his mother’s 
name, you know, and the bank was in the block of property that 
she got from her father. Partly on that account, and partly be- 
cause some of the Hunart as well as the Mayben money was run- 
ning the concern, it was called the Hunart Bank. The Judge was 
a young fellow, just admitted to the bar, when the robbery oc- 
curred; but his father had been dead some years, and he was 
managing the estate for his mother. He was the only child.” 

Parmelee wondered whether the low voice of the speaker 
carried over the transom, or whether the Judge’s interest in the 
paper was more absorbing than the recital of his fellow-townsman. 
The stranger went on : 

“The bank was on one corner of the Hunart property, just 
near where the main street of the village crossed the creek; the 
homestead, where the Judge and his mother lived then, stood 
about forty or fifty rods back from the road.” 

Here the stranger paused and seemed to seek inspiration out 
of the window, but presently he continued, not fluently, but as if 
choosing his words: 

“Well, there was a young fellow in the town — a fine young 
fellow he was, too — and I happen to know' that he’d got into diffi- 
culties concerning some money that didn’t belong to him. And 
there was another young fellow there that afterward turned out 
to be a regular penitentiary bird. J ackson Caskey was his 
name. Ever hear of him ? ” 

Parmelee said he had not. 

“ Probably not, probably not. He went West a good many 
years ago, but I understand that he came back not long since. 
The Judge was good to him, too. Because they’d been boys 
together and playmates, the Judge got him out of trouble several 
times ; or, at least, he tried to, but he didn’t always succeed. All 
us folks down in the old town used to say that it was just like 
the Judge to stick to his old friends like that. 

“ Well, this young fellow that I spoke of first, he got into a 
tight place, as I told you, and finally he induced Jackson Caskey 


194 


THROUGH THE TRANSOM . 


to rob the bank for him, or, rather, they were to rob it together. 
They laid their plans to rob the safe, and then blow it up on a 
certain night, and Jackson Caskey said he knew all about how it 
ought to be done. So he went away and got a lot of powder, and 
brought it back and stored it in a safe place to use when they 
wanted it. Then when the time came to use it the other young 
man — the one that I spoke of first — played sick for a couple of 
days and stayed at home so he wouldn’t be suspected, and when the 
night came he slipped out of his house, and he and J ackson Caskey 
managed to get into the bank. 

“ Now, Caskey said he knew all about blowing up the safe ; 
but he didn’t, because he had never been in such a job before. 
But, anyhow, he fixed up a blast, and when it was ready he lit the 
fuse, and he and the other fellow got out of the building and each 
went home. Well, sir, when that charge exploded it wrecked the 
whole building; the safe was blown out through the back of the 
bank, and the roof came down in splinters on the wreck of the 
walls. It woke the whole town — ” 

“But what about the money,” inquired Parmelee. “Didn’t 
the thieves go back for it ? ” 

“ Oh, they took that away with them. They knew how to open 
the safe all right. They only blew it up for a blind. The bank 
lost about seventeen thousand dollars, besides the Hunart build- 
ing; that was a total wreck. Of course the affair made a great 
sensation. Everybody in the village went to see the blown-up build- 
ing, and nothing else was talked of that day and days afterward. 

“ The next day the young fellow that had started the plot sent 
word to J ackson Caskey that his watch-chain was broken and part 
of it was missing, and if it was found in the wreck of the bank 
of course it would convict him, as it was of a peculiar pattern and 
well known, and he wanted Caskey to go and search around in the 
ruins and see if he couldn’t find it. 

“ Well, Caskey was a new hand at the business, and he was just 
fool enough to do it ; and in that way he was suspected, and finally 
arrested for the crime. That was the first time Judge Mayben 


JULIA G . WALSH. 


195 


defended him. He tried to establish an alibi, but they couldn’t 
quite make it, but, anyhow, the lawyer made a strong plea, on 
account of Caskey’s youth and the fact that he had never before 
been in serious trouble, and he got him off with a comparatively 
light sentence. Folks down in the old town said it was mighty 
clever of young Mayben, considering all he lost, because the money 
never was turned up ; but that’s the kind of a man the Judge 
always was — always wanting to make the best of everybody and 
sticking to his old friends and defending them for nothing. He 
said he just knew in his mind that Jackson Caskey was somebody’s 
tool in the matter ; but Caskey wouldn’t peach, and the other fel- 
low was never even suspected.” 

“ What became of him ? ” asked Parmelee. 

“ Oh, he left our village after some years, and set up in a big 
city. Did mighty well, too, and lived straight and is straight. He 
never was a bad fellow at heart. He just got desperate that time, 
and — well, maybe he thought he had some claim on the bank ; and 
maybe he had. Anyhow, he’s got a reputation to-day second to 
none for honesty and honor. I fancy his experience at that time 
was a lesson that gave him the very moral shock that he needed. 

“ But that’s not the end of the story. The Hunart Bank was 
never rebuilt. At the time, the family didn’t have the ready 
money to do it ; and some years afterward, when the old lady died, 
the Judge concluded he’d leave our town and get into the big 
world ; and so the heaps of brick and mortar lay there, and after a 
while weeds and vines grew up all over them and nothing was 
ever done with the place. But last week we had a big storm down 
there — the biggest one in half a century, some of the old people 
said; the whole country was flooded, and the creeks were out of 
their banks in no time. And, sir, what do you think? That 
little creek of ours got dammed up at the bridge, and the current 
turned and ran through the ruins of the old Hunart Bank and 
washed away a lot of the stuff ; and the next day some children that 
were digging around turned up that piece of broken watch-chain. 
Of course, some of the old folks saw it, and recognized it, and 


198 


THROUGH THE TRANSOM. 


they’re beginning to put two and two together, as the saying is, 
and suspect the right man. Now they say they’re going to find 
out if he still has the other piece of that broken watch-chain. Of 
course, if he has, and they find it out, that convicts him ; but, if 
he’s smart, he’ll get rid of it.” 

“ Then why don’t you warn him ? Why don’t you tell him 
so?” asked Judge Mayben’s confidential clerk. 

ec That’s what I wanted to do,” answered the soft- voiced man, 
“ but I haven’t had a chance. Now, if that piece of chain was 
found on me, they’d think — ” 

The soft-voiced man was rudely interrupted, for young Parme- 
lee’s tilted chair came down to normal level with a click, and he 
said, sharply : 

“ You ! who are you, anyhow, and how do you happen to know 
so much about the man that wasn’t suspected? Are you — ” 

The name was never spoken. In the inner office there was the 
harsh rustle of newspaper, and then the dull, heavy sound of a fall, 
and young Parmelee sprang toward the door and threw it open. 
Judge Mayben lay at full length face downward on the floor. 
Parmelee was dazed for an instant, and in that instant the soft- 
voiced man had pushed past him and reached the prostrate form, 
turned it over, and placed his hand on the heart. 

“ Fainted,” he said, tersely. “ He’ll be all right in a minute. 
Get some water.” 

He spoke as one in command, and young Parmelee obeyed him 
mechanically. When the confidential clerk returned to the room 
the soft-voiced man was rising from his knees, and he said again : 

“ He’ll be all right in a minute. I wouldn’t call any one if I 
was you. I guess I’ll go. I reckon the Judge doesn’t care to see 
me. Tell him it’s all right.” 

He stooped and picked up something from the floor that 
gleamed brightly. It was a small length of broken watch-chain 
of peculiar pattern. 

The outer door opened as softly for his exit as for his entrance, 
and the soft-voiced man was gone. 


GRANDMAMMA. 


BY MARY BOYLE O’REILLY. 

Outside the wind blew flurries of snow against the panes. 
Within the fat china mandarin on the center-table blinked at 
the glowing fire in the old-fashioned Franklin. Before him, on 
the sofa, lay a dozen knobby bundles, tied with scarlet ribbons. 

Grandmamma knew it was a sad waste of good ribbon, but she 
had heard such was the fashion. Since she must tie up her gifts 
with ribbons she would have none but the best. Perhaps the Girls 
would make use of it later for hair bows. 

It was cozy in the quiet warmth of the prim, old room, and 
Grandmamma’s head nodded : the knitting slipped from her knee, 
and the spectacles from her relaxed forefinger. The fat china 
mandarin nodded also, as he leered from the winking fire to the 
perky scarlet bows. He had been dusted three times that day, and 
his squat figure fairly shone. 

The door-bell pealed through the house, and Grandmamma — 
waking with a start — felt nervously for her cane. The Girls 
had come at last, and had almost caught her napping ! She could 
hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen; then the door was 
opened and a deep voice pronounced her name. So it was not 
the Girls after all ! Next moment Hannah brought in a package 
gay with holly. “ Another ! ” cried Grandmamma, her tender 
mouth tremulous, “ do they think I am a child that they send me 
so many presents? A book from Mrs. Waters? How very kind 
of her ! Hand me my glasses, Hannah. Dear me ! A novel by 
a Frenchman! Well, at least I am too old to be hurt by such 
reading.” 

Left alone the old lady laid the book on the table and covered 


198 


GRANDMAMMA. 


it with another. She had her opinion of French novels. Then her 
glance, falling complacently on the little heap on the sofa, re- 
minded her to seek the window. 

“ I thought the Girls would be here before this. Poor children, 
how busy they must be. And such a disagreeable day, too. I 
hope Sallie remembered to wear her overshoes and Elizabeth her 
fur tippet. Why, here is J ohn ! ” 

Next minute John’s sturdy stamp sounded from the door rug, 
the big, silent son-in-law whom Grandmamma had learned to love. 

“ Have Mary and the girls been here? ” he asked. “ No? That 
is curious. They spoke of coming early, and so getting home in 
time to dress for Madge Wilkins’ dance. Christmas Eve is a 
home night, I think, but Mary is ambitious for the children, and 
girls will be girls, mother.” His warm smile encompassed her 
bowed figure as he felt boyishly through his pockets. “ Just a trifle 
to say a happy Christmas to you, mother. Found it in the 
jeweler’s. I thought it seemed to suit you. Here, let me open it 
for you, dear.” 

Her brown eyes grew misty as she looked at the exquisite gift 
he had brought her. “ Pin it on my collar,” she said, “ my dear 
boy.” He obeyed so awkwardly that they both found in laughter 
an excuse for the tears in their eyes. Then he sat by her arm- 
chair, telling with quiet gratitude of the successes the last year 
had brought him, and of his Christmas plans for his work-people. 

“By another year you will be a rich man, please God,” she 
told him; and in the sympathetic silence each wondered what 
another year would bring to her. 

When he was gone she sat alone thinking the long thoughts 
of age, smiling half-sadly as she fingered his gift. 

“ J ohn is lonely, too,” she told herself, “ and he is working 
beyond his strength. Will Mary never realize that she is wasting 
his life and her own ? Her old age will have few precious mem- 
ories of love and peace to dwell upon.” 

A carriage rumbled heavily as it rounded the street corner. 

“ The Girls ! ” cried Grandmamma, rising in her excitement. 
“ The dear, extravagant children. Now where is my purse? ” 


MARY BOYLE O'REILLY . 


199 


The carriage drew up at the curb, and out stepped a sweet- 
faced girl, carrying a pot of flowers. 

“ I wanted to bring you some hyacinths of my own raising / 5 
she said. “ Of course Sallie and Elizabeth have been here before 
me to wish you a happy Christmas, but then I am only an adopted 
grandchild / 5 and she smiled affectionately into the sweet old face 
upraised to meet her lips. <( Such beautiful things as every one 
has sent me / 5 she continued, “ me, of all people ! 55 and while 
Grandmamma held her chilled hands to warm them she ran over 
the tale of her gifts. 

“ And why should they not, my dear child ? Are you not 
always doing for others? What have you now piled up on that 
front seat ? 55 

“ Mostly mittens, and turkeys, and fixings ” laughed the girl. 
“ Mother’s, you know. She has so many friends who are — not 
well off . 55 

“ God bless you both / 5 said Grandma, kissing her good-by. 
“ Your mother should be a happy woman . 55 

Left alone she rearranged the parcels on the sofa, sighing 
softly as she straightened the flaunting ribbons. In that little 
heap lay the work of many happy weeks : gay slippers and fleecy 
evening hoods, in which jeweled gifts were hidden by way of a 
surprise. Grandmamma did not let herself think which part of 
her gifts would prove most welcome. A fortnight ago she had 
tied the scarlet bows ; since daybreak she had been up and dressed 
in her best silk, waiting for the Girls. Now it was almost too 
late for them to come. Her kind mouth drooped like a child’s 
in her disappointment. 

“ By next Christmas J ohn will have retired from business,” 
she thought, “ and the Girls will perhaps be betrothed, while I — 55 

Again the bell rang loudly, an impatient, discordant jangle. 
Grandmamma stood leaning on her cane, listening intently, pre- 
pared for disappointment. 

“ Why, it is Mary’s voice,” she cried happily. 

“ Merry Christmas, mother,” said the daughter who entered, 
pausing to let her bundles slip into Hannah’s waiting hands. 


200 


GRANDMAMMA. 


“ Dear me, how cozy you are here, and what a horrid day it has 
been. Just rush, rush, rush! Christmas has become a positive 
nuisance. Another year I shall give only to those who give to me. 
All those presents for us ! How generous you are, mother. The 
girls will be delighted. They were so worn out with running 
about to-day that I would not let them come with me. Sallie was 
quite vexed not to see you. I made them both lie down to rest.” 

“ I am very glad that you did, dear, and that they were so 
sensible. At first I was afraid” (with a wistful little smile) 
“ that they had forgotten to come.” 


A RECORD BREAKER. 


BY S. M. O’MALLEY. 

The Allegro club room was empty, save for three men, who 
were lounging about one of the tables. 

“We must be represented at the International Contests/’ said 
one of the men firmly. 

“ And I repeat,” exclaimed another, “where is the man to rep- 
resent us ? ” 

The third arose with a laugh. “ I shall begin a search for 
him,” he said, “ while you gentlemen settle the question satisfac- 
torily between yourselves.” 

“ Stay, stay ! ” called out both men, but the athletic figure went 
rapidly toward the door, answering with a negative shake of the 
head. The remaining men stared after him for a moment. Then 
the older of the two said : “ Why not Hermann ? ” 

The other took his cigar from his mouth, and, with a slight 
puff, seemed to blow the idea away. 

“ Hermann would have to work hard to reach success, and that 
he will not do. He has ruined himself. When we were at college 
together he was the trimmest fellow I knew, and I liked to see him 
winning in the games. You know I could only look on,” he glanced 
down at a twisted and shortened limb, “ and in his classes he was 
phenomenal. I couldn’t swear it, but I believe he has as fine an 
education as the Archbishop, and you know he is reckoned a giant 
in intellect.” 

“Related some way, are they not?” 

“ Yes, Hermann is his nephew.” 

“ Why does Hermann act as he does ? You’d never know he 
had an idea above the latest gossip or mixing a new drink.” 

201 


202 


A RECORD BREAKER. 


“ It all commenced years ago., when that report went round that 
Hermann, Sr., had failed for all he was worth. You remember that 
young Hermann was all attention to a handsome Miss Montserro 
who was here that year. When the news came out, she failed to 
recognize him, I have understood, and he became moody and bitter, 
dropped away from all his old ambitions, and cared very little for 
any of his old likings. Even the Archbishop fails to influence 
him. I doubt if he has made his Easter duties in three years.” 

“ But Hermann is rich ; did the old gentleman lose his money ? ” 

“ Oh, I forgot to say that the report was a joke — something 
that grew out of Hermann’s indignant denial of an assertion that 
Miss Montserro loved the money, not Hermann.” 

“ Then you think he could not stand the work for the contest ? ” 

“ He could stand it, but he will not do it. He is too indifferent, 
too cynical, to make the effort. Besides, he drinks heavily, and I 
am afraid he is on the downward course.” 

The men were speaking without reserve, for they supposed they 
were alone in the building, but at this moment a small figure, hand- 
somely gowned, passed under the window, up the steps, and into 
the club room. 

“ Good morning, Colonel Belmont, and Mr. Travers ; this is 
unexpected. I am looking for a book Mr. Hermann left here. He 
said I could have it if I cared to stop for it.” 

The gentlemen hastened into a lively conversation, mentally 
wondering if she had heard their words. 

“ I hope she did not overhear us,” laughed Travers. “ She can 
say just what she thinks, and I would not like to fall into her 
hands.” 

“ She is a great friend of Hermann’s, too,” sighed Colonel Bel- 
mont. “ Why is it that a careless scamp like Hermann has so 
many good women for friends ? ” 

Travers shrugged his shoulders. “ It’s a pity she is so poor, 
or that he could not love her ; better than Miss Montserro, I think.” 

“ And I think so,” replied the colonel, with so much fervor that 
Travers looked at him quizzically. 

The trim little woman they were discussing had passed out of 


S. M. O'MALLEY. 


203 


their range of vision, so they did not know that she had been joined 
by Hermann, nor that she was talking to him earnestly. 

* * * * * 

“ We have been friends and schoolmates,” she was saying, “ and 
while you will always have friends if your money lasts, yet you are 
not laying up treasures in heaven. If you do> no harm, you are 
certainly doing no good.” She paused, and looked at him half dis- 
couraged. “ Do not be angry. Yet I could well afford to lose 
your friendship if I could only say the word that would arouse you 
to a life of active good.” Again she paused, but Hermann walked 
on steadily without a word. With downcast eyes she considered the 
subject, and then tried another plan. 

“ I must tell you something ; I overheard it, and I shall prepare 
you. The Allegro club will ask you to represent it at the Inter- 
national Contests this }'Car, and you can not, you must not, refuse. 
Nor can you win without hard work, but I am going to ask you to 
try. It is a favor I ask for your good. Here,” as they neared the 
cathedral, “ I shall say a prayer for your success. Will you join 
me?” 

Hesitatingly he followed, kneeling as if in a dream, snatches 
of half-forgotten prayers hurrying through his bewildered brain, 
until, with a start, he found himself alone, his companion having 
slipped away. 

“ How like Mary Bauer,” he laughed as he reached the street. 
“ Some way I can’t content myself. I’ll go down to the Armory 
and drill with the boys. That will be a beginning. Perhaps a 
little military discipline will do me good.” 

After this he did not see any of the club members for several 
weeks. Meanwhile Mary Bauer had been at work, and the club 
men were only waiting to see Hermann to urge on him the subject 
of the International Contests. 

“ Where is Hermann ? ” was a common question. 

Then it was rumored that Miss Montserro was in town, and 
some of Hermann’s friends supposed he had left the city to avoid 
meeting her. There was some talk of giving up all idea of the 
contest and settling down to a. lecture course, when the startling 


204 


A RECORD BREAKER. 


news came that Hermann had met with an accident, and was seri- 
ously injured, but that he had saved Miss Montserro’s life, and 
that she was devoted in her care of him. Later details told how 
he had been standing in front of the Armory, ready for military 
drill, when a runaway, horse, dashing along the street, claimed his 
attention. Rushing after the horse and carriage, he overtook them 
near a dangerous turn, where a rocky bank and a sweep of trees 
promised a fatal crash ; with a bound he caught the horse’s bit and 
twisted it against his mouth, bringing him to an uneasy standstill. 

Much to Hermann’s surprise, Miss Montserro was in the car- 
riage, and she chose to be very sweet and gracious, passing over all 
intervening years of neglect with an indifference that amazed Her- 
mann. 

The little strain to his muscles, a bruise or two and a minute 
of deadly pallor she magnified into dire disaster, fussing over him 
until he sighed thankfully when she left him to a gentle-faced 
nurse. Undoubtedly Miss Montserro was as pretty as ever, and 
she was his ideal, but ideals make one nervous sometimes. 

Much to his surprise, Mary Bauer came, too, looking at him 
critically. 

“ Oh ! you’re all right,” she exclaimed, much relieved. “ Don’t 
forget the contest,” and off she went, after placing a spray of 
hyacinths on his pillow. 

“ My favorite,” he said delightedly. “ I wonder if she likes it, 
.too?” 

To some club friends, who came, up later, he said : “ I’ll be in 
trim. I’ve been hard at work, and I never felt so much as if I 
wanted to win.” 

“ I guess Travers or Belmont spoke to him and left us in the 
dark about it,” they said. “ It’s a fine thing that Miss Montserro 
came. He’ll take an interest in life again.” 

Finally the news was all over the city, the papers took it up and 
interest in the contests ran high. One of their own was to enter 
the lists, and he must be upheld and made much of. “ Hermann 
is all right,” was a password at the club. Mary Bauer entered the 
cathedral every evening to pray for her friend and his success. 


8. M. O'MALLEY. 


205 


placing a spray of her favorite white flower across the Blessed 
Mother’s feet to gain her intercession for Hermann. 

Miss Montserro haunted Herrmann. He was seen in her car- 
riage on several occasions ; finally his colors, white and lavender, 
appeared on her whip. Soon they were taken up by all his friends, 
but the honor of introducing them was credited to Miss Montserro. 

Hermann did not meet Mary Bauer again until a few days be- 
fore the event. He said, half sadly, “ Will you come? I shall need 
you if I succeed or fail.” 

“ Fail ! ” murmured Mary, a little overcome. “ You must not 
think of failing.” 

The day came, serene and cool, just the kind of weather that 
tingles the nerves deliciously. The audience was large and enthusi- 
astic, many trained athletes being present, and much in evidence on 
coat lapels and as shoulder knots floated Hermann’s white and 
lavender. Miss Montserro was conspicuous with her tally-ho. She 
was dressed in white and lavender, with bows of the same colors at 
her horses’ ears ; very brilliant she looked, and the friends who 
understood thought Hermann a lucky man. 

The wonderful hammer-throwing worked the audience into an 
appreciative mood, and when the time came for the running con- 
test a stir like the rustling of a distant wind went over the crowd ; 
then came a silence, and all eyes were turned toward the starting- 
point. At the crack of the pistol Hermann sprang forward, dis- 
tancing all his companions in the bound. 

“ Hermann ! Hermann ! ” roared the crowd, while here and 
there scattering voices called out, “ Bartley ! Hannagan ! ” 

To Mary, who was fearful, it seemed that Hermann was weak- 
ening. She stood up in her trap, her face white as death, her hands 
clasped. To Hermann, who looked that way, her face was a prayer. 
He had seen Miss Montserro, and some of the old cynicism came to 
him. Why should he want to win this race, what did he care who 
carried away the victor’s laurels ? He slackened his speed until he 
caught sight of Mary’s face. 

“ I can’t disappoint that ! ” he thought. He gave Mary a bright 
look, and forged ahead, winning the race, while the audience roared 


206 


A RECORD BREAKER. 


“ Hermann ! " over and over ; the bands shrieked and flags and 
streamers of lavender and white blossomed out all over the field. 

Miss Montserro felt a trifle angry. She had followed Her- 
mann's look, and she had seen the sweet little woman in the un- 
pretentious little trap. Nor did she feel better when Hermann 
climbed into it, with an air of possession that went bitterly to her 
heart, and one of the club men, who was proof against Miss Mont- 
serro’s charms, looked after Mary and Hermann with an amazed 
look, saying : “ Well, that is a record breaker.” 


CHILOMACON. 


BY KATHARINE JENKINS. 

In the far away days when the now thickly populated State of 
Maryland was a poor struggling colony, with more or less poverty- 
stricken settlements scattered along the shores of the Chesapeake 
Bay and its confluent rivers, our holy faith was the one priceless 
treasure possessed by the majority of the settlers. Some few 
there were who had joined the colony who were not Catholics. 
These were made welcome and given the freedom of belief and 
practice which the poor oppressed Catholics themselves hoped 
always to enjoy in this home of their adoption. Alas ! their hope 
was futile ; but of that sad time we need not think, for our story 
is of the happier days. 

About fifteen miles south of where now stands our proud 
national capitol, the Piscataways, a gentle, hospitable tribe of 
Indians, had their capital w'hich they called Kittamaqundi. Their 
king was Chilomacon, a chief of great power and authority, who 
was respected, admired, and feared by all the neighboring tribes. 
What Chilomacon did, all the other chiefs would try to do; and 
knowing this, it was no small solace to the hearts of the mission- 
aries, Fathers White and Altham, when they found him so ready 
to listen to the sacred truths of the Christian religion. At a gen- 
eral meeting of his tribe and in the presence of several chiefs and 
some English settles, Chilomacon declared his determination to 
adjure his old superstitions, and with his queen and family to be 
received into the true fold. The day for their reception and 
baptism was fixed for July 5, 1640. Fathers White and Altham, 
the governor, and many of the English colonists were to be pres- 

20T 


108 


CHILOMACON. 


ent, and great preparations were being made by the Indians for 
the' auspicious event. 

A few miles from Kittamaqundi, a small Protestant colony 
from Virginia had been established, and among their number was 
a family named Webster. The family consisted of the husband, 
wife, and Clarence, the eight year old son. There was no school 
for Clarence to attend, and his parents were too busy trying to 
build up their new home to give him much attention. So he was 
left to play with the other children in the settlement or to wander 
off into the sweet pine woods just as his fancy dictated. Clarence 
was a delicate, dreamy child, a poet in embryo, possessing all the 
sensitiveness and keen perceptions with which such natures are 
endowed. The woods with their ever varying lights and shadows 
were his delight and never-failing source of amusement. 

Very early one morning he wandered off, hatless and happy, 
toward this beloved retreat. As he penetrated farther and 
farther into the dense thicket, he lost all sense of time and place. 
The land of enchantment lay before him, and that he was miles 
from home, alone, and nearing the village of the fierce-looking 
Piscataways, never daunted this little pioneer. Gentle and shrink- 
ing as he was, fear was generally unknown to him. Now the only 
feeling was one of fatigue. Overcome by this, the child fell on the 
soft velvety moss at the foot of an ancient cedar that looked as if 
it could tell the history of the world, so old and venerable it 
seemed, and went fast asleep. How long he slept he did not know, 
but suddenly he awoke to find a tall, majestic Indian standing 
over him, gazing down most kindly. The Indian was in full 
regalia. On his head was a high coronet of eagle feathers; 
strings upon strings of gay beads were around his neck; a many- 
tinted striped blanket hung over his slioulders, and a fringe of 
feathers bordered the bottom of his coat, which looked almost 
like a dress. His moccasins were of leather, heavily worked in 
bright colored designs. Altogether he was the most picturesque 
figure one could imagine. All this finery was the gift of the mis- 
sionaries, but, of course, the boy did not realize that. Clarenoe 


KATHARINE JENKINS. 


209 


knew at once that this was the famous King of the Piscataways 
whom he had long been so anxious to see. Jumping up, he made 
the very best bow he could muster, and not knowing a word of the 
chief’s language, all he could do was to say as respectfully as 
possible while he was making his bow, “ Chilomacon ! ” 

In very broken, and Clarence thought very funny English, the 
great chief asked the boy his name. 

“ Clarence Webster, and I live at the new settlement beyond 
the woods,” answered Clarence. 

The Indian gave a sort of grunt. Clarence was beginning to 
feel just a wee bit afraid, but Chilomacon looked so kind, and 
seemed to come so near to smiling that the little fellow took 
heart again and gave himself up to enjoying the novel experience. 
Speech between the two was impossible, but somehow Chilomacon 
made Clarence understand that there was going to be a great feast 
that morning in Kittamaqundi, and that he was invited. He 
thought he ought to run home and tell his mother, but he couldn’t 
make the king understand this, and he was afraid of displeasing 
him. And so it came to pass that the great King Chilomacon 
walked into his capital holding a fair-haired, blue-eyed little 
English boy by the hand, much to the amazement of his queen 
and family, and to the amusement of the saintly old missionary, 
Father Andrew White. 

Clarence’s delight knew no bounds when he saw so many white 
faces and heard the familiar English tongue; for, as brave as he 
was, he could not but feel a little quiver of fear creep over him at 
the thought of going alone into the Indian capital. But all fear 
vanished and gave way to astonishment and unalloyed pleasure as 
the wonderful day went on. It was the great day in Chilo- 
macon’s life ; the day when he and his wife and family, his prin- 
cipal councillors and many of his tribe were baptized and received 
into the true fold. 

A chapel made in Indian fashion, of the bark of trees, had been 
built expressly for the occasion. An altar had also been erected 
and decorated by the chief’s daughter and her maidens. The 


210 


CHILOMACON. 


rude font at which the stain of original sin was to be washed away 
by the regenerating water of Baptism, was wreathed and gar- 
landed with the sweetest flowers, ferns and greens the woods could 
supply. And where can more beautiful greens be found, even in 
our day, than in the sweet-smelling pine woods of Maryland ? 

To the little English Protestant boy the scene was indeed one 
of enchantment; and when the ceremonies were over, and the In- 
dians, the colonists, and the Fathers had joined in singing “ The 
song of the Lord in a strange land ” the child’s heart was stirred 
to its utmost depths. 

With all the ardor of his poetic nature, he pushed forward 
through the crowd, and reaching the two priests, he begged that 
he, too, might be allowed to belong to “ the dear Lord.” 

“ If these little Indian children are His, why may not I be ? ” he 
asked. 

Father White smiled, yet with tears in his eyes, as the child 
pleaded for Baptism. Caressing him tenderly, he said : 

“ My child, I can not baptize you without your parents’ con- 
sent. But I leave you in the king’s care, and he will instruct 
you. When I come again, which, please God, will be soon, I hope 
both you and your parents will be ready for Baptism.” 

Clarence turned to Chilomacon for comfort, and seeing that 
the king was holding out his hands, the boy went to him. 

“ I teach you all I know, an’ the Great Chief He will — •” 

“ Make you all His children,” added Father White. Laying 
his hands on Clarence’s tumbled curls, and making the sign of 
the cross on his forehead, he said, 

“ May God bless Chilomacon’s first convert.” 

When the Fathers had gone and the great day was drawing to 
its close, Chilomacon again took Clarence by the hand to walk 
with him back through the woods to his home. His councillors 
wanted him to send the child by some trusty messenger. 

“ No, the Father left him in my care, and I am to lead him to 
Christ. He is mine,” answered the chief. Chilomacon had been 
baptized Charles, his wife, Mary, and his daughter, Anne; but to 


KATHARINE JENKINS. 


211 


Clarence he was always the King Chilomacon, his ideal of all that 
was majestic and fascinating. 

As the Chief and child walked through the woods in the deep- 
ening twilight, speech, which had seemed so impossible in the 
early morning, came to both these innocent souls, the king just 
reborn in Baptism, and the boy craving to be admitted to the 
household of the Father. 

Clarence eagerly listened, and plied the king with questions, 
and it was with genuine regret that he saw the lights in the settle- 
ment twinkling in the darkness. 

The day had been one of such intense excitement that after 
the one first thought that he ought to tell his mother, he had for- 
gotten all about home. He saw how selfish he had been when he 
found his mother in tears and his father grave and anxious. They 
had searched for him for hours, but of course, had gone in the 
wrong direction. Well, it was a happy meeting, and Chilomacon 
stood by an interested spectator. 

The Webster s begged him to remain with them for the night, 
but their hot cabin had no charms for this son of the open wilder- 
ness. After a few dignified words, he drew his blanket around 
him and walked away. Clarence stood and looked after him till 
he was lost in the woods. Then he burst into tears. 

“ He is the most beautiful man on earth, and he is going to 
teach me to be one of God’s children,” he sobbed. 

Cuddled up in his mother’s arms he little by little told the 
story of the wonderful day, and ended by announcing that when 
Father White next came they were all to be baptized. The father 
and mother laughingly gave their consent to the over-wrought 
child, little thinking that he would hold them to the promise, and 
the boy went to sleep happy. 

The next morning found the little zealot eager to set off for 
Kittamaqundi for his first catechism lesson, and so great was his 
perseverance and so edifying the piety of the Catholic Indians 
that Chilomacon soon found all his English neighbors as eager for 
the truth as Clarence himself. And it was a great happiness for 


212 


CHILOMACON. 


Father White on his next visit to find not only Clarence and his 
parents but also quite a number of their fellow colonists anxious 
to be received into the Church. 

Chilomacon died a few years after, and as the years sped on 
and the eagerness for gain took more and more hold on the land, 
the poor Indians were pushed farther and farther away, until 
finally the once proud tribe of Piscataways was obliterated. 

Of them we can truly say that 

“ their cone-like cabins 
That clustered o’er the vale. 

Have fled away like wither’d leaves 
Before the autumn gale.” 

But the memory of Chilomacon, the “ gentle, interesting 
savage,” as he is called, lives, and one of his monuments is the 
faith of the Webster family. Clarence’s grandchildren many 
times removed hold it as their proud boast that Chilomacon, the 
great king, stood godfather for the first Clarence Webster. 


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amples from Scripture, the Holy Fathers, etc. Illustrated. 161110, cloth, $1.00. 

ILLUSTRATED EXPLANATION OF THE COMMANDMENTS. By Rev. H. Rolfus. 
With Numerous Examples from Scripture, the Holy Fathers, etc. Illustrated, iflmo, 
cloth, $1.00. 

GOFFINE'S DEVOUT INSTRUCTIONS ON THE EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Illustrated 
Edition. Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 140 illustrations. 704 pages. 8vo, cloth. $1.00. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. With Reflections for Every Day. Numerous full-page illustra- 
tions. 430 pages. 8vo, cloth, $1.50. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. With nearly 400 illustrations. 600 pages. Svo* 
cloth, $2.50. 

For sale by all Catholic booksellers , or sent post jiaid 01 receipt of price by the publishers , 

BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

Nf.wYork: Cincinnati: Chicago: 

36-38 Barclay Street. 343 Main Street. 21 1-213 Madison Street. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper p 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxi 
Treatment Date: Feb. 2010 

PreservationTechnok 

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